The morning sun spilled across the schoolyard, gilding the walls in pale gold. Students moved in restless clusters, laughter and chatter threading the air like invisible currents. Rina sat at her desk near the window, her chin resting on her palm, her gaze unfocused as the teacher's voice droned on. Her pencil, however, scratched lazily against the margins of her notebook. She wasn't listening. Not today.
Her eyes kept drifting toward the empty seat near the back. Macon's seat.
He hadn't come to school. Again.
For the past few weeks, his presence had become something she unconsciously expected — the quiet, distant figure who always seemed to carry a weight no one else could see. At first, she hadn't cared. She had only been curious about him, the strange boy who seemed caught between two worlds, who sometimes looked as though he was listening to voices no one else could hear. But little by little, their paths had begun to cross. Little by little, his silence had drawn her in.
Now, his absence pressed against her chest with an unfamiliar heaviness.
The bell rang. Students rushed out in a flurry of footsteps and laughter. Rina packed her bag slowly, her eyes flicking once more toward his seat. Empty. Cold. Waiting.
By the time she stepped out into the sunlight, a decision had already formed in her heart. She was going to see him.
---
The street to Macon's house was quieter than usual, as though the air itself carried a hush. When she reached the small gate, she hesitated, clutching the straps of her bag. Would Vivian even let her in?
She raised her hand and knocked.
Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing Vivian. Her face was tired, shadowed, but not unkind. Her brows lifted slightly at the sight of Rina.
"You again?" Vivian asked, her tone a mixture of suspicion and weary acceptance.
Rina swallowed. "I… I just came to check on him. He hasn't been at school."
Vivian studied her for a long moment, then sighed. "He's resting. He's been… unwell." She opened the door a little wider, but her eyes narrowed. "Don't disturb him."
Rina nodded quickly, stepping inside.
The air was cool, tinged with the faint smell of herbs and something metallic. Her footsteps were soft on the floor as she followed Vivian to the room. There, lying still on the bed, was Macon. His face was pale, strands of hair falling loosely over his forehead. He looked as though he were caught in a dream he couldn't escape.
Rina's heart tightened. She wanted to speak to him, to call his name, but the stillness around him felt sacred, like stepping into a temple where even a whisper might shatter something fragile.
She lowered herself into a chair by his bed. For a moment, she just sat there, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. Then, almost unconsciously, she pulled her sketchbook from her bag.
Her hand hovered over the page. She had drawn him before, countless times, though he never knew. His features had become familiar under her pencil — the strong line of his jaw, the eyes that carried storms, the scar that seemed etched not just on his skin but into his soul. Drawing him always felt different, as though the paper itself breathed beneath her strokes.
Her pencil moved. Lines emerged. Curves deepened. Shadows fell into place. She drew him as he was now — fragile, silent, lying in a fragile peace. She poured into the sketch the worry that pressed against her chest, the quiet wish that he would wake, that he would look at her again with those unreadable eyes.
When she finished, she stared at the drawing. It was him. Perfectly him.
Vivian's voice broke her focus. "You should go now. He needs rest."
Rina nodded, closing her sketchbook gently. She rose, casting one last glance at Macon. His face was still, his lips parted slightly as though on the edge of a word he couldn't speak.
She whispered, too soft for anyone to hear: "Wake up soon."
Then she left.
---
At home, the evening shadows stretched long across her room. Rina sat at her desk, her sketchbook open to the page. She traced the lines with her finger, her mind replaying the image of him lying there, so quiet, so unreachable.
"I'll give it to him," she murmured to herself. "When he's better."
The room was still. The only sound was the distant chirping of crickets outside her window. She leaned back, sighing, her pencil rolling from her fingers.
And then—
A faint shimmer rippled across the page.
Her eyes snapped open.
The lines of the drawing trembled, as though stirred by an invisible wind. Slowly, impossibly, the pencil strokes shifted, deepened, twisted into something new. The face of Macon on the paper hardened, his expression fierce. His clothes, once the simple fabric of a boy in bed, darkened, reshaped into armor that gleamed as though catching the light of a battlefield sun. A blade appeared at his side, etched in perfect detail.
Her breath caught.
It was no longer the boy she had drawn. It was a warrior.
The air in the room seemed heavier, charged, pressing against her skin. She stumbled back from the desk, her chair scraping against the floor.
"No…" Her voice trembled. "No, that's not… I didn't draw that."
The eyes on the page — Macon's eyes, but not — glared out at her, sharp and unyielding, filled with the weight of battles she couldn't name.
Rina's pulse thundered in her ears. Memories flickered at the edge of her mind, shadows of dreams she had long buried: visions of fire, of blades clashing, of voices calling her name in a language she couldn't understand. She had always thought they were just dreams. Just fragments of imagination.
But this—
The sketch seemed alive. Breathing. Speaking without words.
Her hands shook violently. "Stop… stop…"
In panic, she snatched the sketchbook and flung it across the room. It hit the floor with a sharp slap, the pages fluttering open like broken wings.
She pressed her back against the wall, her breaths coming quick and shallow. Her eyes refused to leave the fallen book.
The drawing stared back. Unchanged now. But the image lingered in her mind — Macon not as a boy, but as a soldier, a general cloaked in armor, carrying a weight of blood and curses.
Her heart hammered. She didn't understand. She didn't want to.
And yet, a small, trembling voice inside her whispered:
This isn't the first time.
Because deep down, she knew. Ever since she was little, she had seen things — visions, flashes of a life that wasn't hers, yet felt too close to deny. A woman's voice calling her. A battlefield drenched in crimson. The feeling of loss, sharp and endless.
And now, the sketch.
The sketch that spoke.