L I R A

The police lights strobe red-blue across wet pavement, but it feels more like a funeral than a rescue. They’ve taped off the bus, Ida’s still crying into her hands, and the adults keep whispering words like “mechanical failure” and “stress response.” No one says the bell.

Ezra doesn’t buy it.

“We’re not walking away,” he says, low enough that the deputies nearby can’t hear. His glasses are fogged at the edges, rain clinging to the lenses, but his voice is clear. “All of us saw it. We know what fell. We know what it is spelled.”

Ryke mutters, “Yeah, it spelled her,” and jerks his chin at me like I’m a bad punchline. He looks guilty right after.

Ezra ignores him. “If we split up, they’ll convince us it never happened. That’s what adults do here. They edit.” His gaze finds mine, steady. “So we stick together.”

Mara lowers her camera for once. “An alliance?” She tries to laugh, but it comes out shaky.

Ezra nods. “Call it what you want. But we need each other if we want answers.”

The word answers makes my stomach twist. I keep seeing the strip stamped with my name, waiting. Waiting for what?

Fog drifts down from the tower, slow and heavy, curling around our ankles like it has opinions. No one else notices. Only us.

Ezra presses on. “Tomorrow, after class. Archive room. We start there.”

Ryke throws his hood up. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

Ezra doesn’t blink. “Maybe I have.”

The archive room smells like dust and chalk, like secrets no one vacuumed. Ezra’s already there when I slip in, stacks of books open, yearbooks spread across the table. Mara leans over his shoulder, camera off for once. Ryke raids a vending machine bag, crumbs marking his trail.

The overhead fluorescents buzz like dying bees, one tube flickering in a seizure of light. It makes the frost stains on the high windows look alive, crawling. When I brush my fingers along a book spine, the cloth cover comes away damp, cold as if someone left it outside.

“This town has patterns,” Ezra says, tapping an old attendance roster. “Names that just… stop showing up. No transfers, no obits. They vanish between semesters.”

“Or they moved,” Ryke argues, mouth full. “Not everything’s a conspiracy.”

Ezra looks up, unimpressed. “Then why do the obituaries have frost stains? Why are entire families crossed out like typos?”

I scan the page. Rows of names in neat print, and then gaps. Big, clean erasures where there should be people. My throat tightens. The paper feels thin as skin.

Mara’s voice drops low. “My aunt told me once that there’s a group in town. Old families, old debts. They call themselves the Bellwardens.” She hesitates, glancing at me. “They say the bell tolls for whoever they choose.”

The room seems colder, like the fog outside pressed its face against the window. A clock on the wall ticks once, then stops, the silence swallowing the sound.

“Bellwardens?” Ryke scoffs, but he doesn’t sound sure. “Sounds like a garage band.”

Ezra pushes the book toward me. “Sounds like the reason your name was stamped on steel.”

I shove the book back. Too fast. Too loud. My palms leave damp prints.

No one says anything after that. The silence is thick, daring someone to break it.

The fog outside isn’t natural. It presses flat against the window glass, then curls back like it’s waiting. I stare too long, and that’s when I see him.

Callen Roe, leaning against the lockers across the hall, hood dripping rainwater he shouldn’t still be carrying inside. He hasn’t moved, but it feels like he’s been here the whole time, watching.

Ezra notices first. “Who invited him?” His voice sharpens like a blade.

Callen doesn’t answer. His gaze slides past Ezra, past Mara, straight to me. For a second, the world shrinks to the distance between us. My heart stutters like it’s trying to sync with the bell.

“Why are you here?” I whisper, though my voice is steadier than it should be.

His mouth tips in the faintest curve, almost a smile, but not meant for comfort. “You already know.”

“No,” I pressed. “Tell me.”

His eyes catch the lamplight, reflecting gold like something more than human. He shakes his head once, slow. Refusal, or warning, I can’t tell.

The silence between us stretches. Ezra shifts beside me, bristling. Mara’s camera clicks back on, breaking the moment.

Callen finally speaks, but not to explain. Only: “Stay away from the windows.”

Then he’s gone, like the fog swallowed him whole.

Ryke finally breaks the silence. “Okay, but tell me why it’s always the same people in every ghost story. My cousin swears someone vanished after detention last year. Locker full, bed empty, parents moved away overnight. No one talks about it.”

“That’s not a ghost story,” Mara murmurs. “That’s a pattern.”

Ezra frowns, closing one of the yearbooks with more force than needed. “We don’t have the whole picture yet. Tomorrow, we dig. Tonight. ” his gaze circles us, landing on me last “We remember what we saw. Together. That’s enough for now.”

His words settle heavy. Ezra’s certainty is a kind of safety, neat and sharp. Callen’s silence is the opposite. It’s messy, magnetic, and dangerous. My chest feels pulled in two directions, like I’m the rope in someone else’s game.

I don’t say anything. I just look at the window where the fog is pressing closer, waiting for a hum I can’t hear.

The silence after Callen leaves is too loud. Even Ryke doesn’t crack a joke. Mara’s camera whirs, trying to catch focus through the glass, but all it finds is fog pressing harder, thick as wet wool.

Then a sound threads into the air.

Not the bell. Softer. A harmony, two voices weaving like a braid. It takes me a second to realize it’s coming from the hall.

Alma and Vio Sorell, the choir twins, always moving in unison. They stand at the corner by the trophy case. Their mouths barely open, yet the hum vibrates the air like glass struck by a finger. The pitch is precise, sharp as a tuning fork.

The fog pulls back,  like something obeying. It retreats down the street outside the window, curling away from the building until the glass clears.

Mara’s camera clicks, then fizzles into static, the red light blinking out. Ryke mutters, “Okay, that’s creepy,” but his voice cracks halfway through. Ezra instinctively shifts closer to me, blocking half my view like his body could shield me from sound itself.

My skin prickles. Ezra mutters, “That’s not possible.”

The twins stop at the exact same breath. They glance at me, eyes too bright in the dim hallway. And then, perfectly together, they say:

“Three.”

The word slams into me harder than the bell did. And in the echo that follows, I swear the frost on the archive window shapes itself into another countdown mark, waiting to be tallied.