By the time Lira got home, the fog had followed her.

It pooled in the street like someone had tipped over a jar of smoke, swallowing the weak glow from the streetlamps. Light from each bulb seemed to dissolve a foot from its source, leaving the rest in shifting shadow. Even the crickets were quiet. Somewhere far off, a single drip echoed — too slow, too heavy for rain.

She stood at the gate, scanning the street before stepping inside. The fog moved strangely tonight. It didn’t drift — it slid, as if shifting toward her.
Her mother was in the kitchen, humming over the hiss of a boiling kettle. The smell of chamomile drifted in the air.

“How was detention?” her mother asked without turning.

“Educational,” Lira said, toeing off her shoes. The word came out flat. Her mind was still at the bell tower — the unlocked padlock, the carved word, the whispering that wasn’t wind.
Her mom poured steaming water into two mugs. “Educational how?”

“I learned I don’t like detention.”

Her mother snorted softly and slid one mug toward her. “Good lesson.”

Lira took it but didn’t drink. She carried the sound of the tower upstairs with her, past family photos that suddenly looked too posed, too still — like masks of moments rather than the moments themselves. Her room was the same as she’d left it — bed unmade, window cracked for air — but the air now was sharper, edged with that faint metallic tang from the school hallway.
She shut the window.
It didn’t help.

Outside, the streetlamp nearest her house gave a faint electric shudder — light dimming, then flaring like it had been startled. She told herself it was nothing, but still pulled the curtains tight.

Her phone buzzed.

Ezra: We need to talk.
Ezra: Don’t tell Ryke I texted you.

Lira frowned. Ezra Hale’s version of “don’t tell Ryke” lasted exactly thirty minutes.

That’s how long it took for Ryke to show up under the maple tree outside her window, tossing pebbles like they were in a bad teen romcom.

“Open up,” he stage-whispered. “We’re having a strategy meeting.”

“It’s not a strategy meeting if no one agreed to it,” she said, but opened the window anyway.

Minutes later, the three of them sat on her bedroom floor. Ezra was cross-legged, surrounded by books, folders, and photocopies from the town archives. Ryke sprawled against her bed like a cat in a patch of sunlight that didn’t exist.

“The bell has rung exactly nine times in recorded history,” Ezra began, flipping open a folder. “Each time, someone died within twenty-four hours.”

Ryke raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were telling a bedtime story.”

“I’m serious.” Ezra slid a page toward them — an old news clipping with a grainy photo of the bell tower looming over the school. Headlines listed tragedies: Local Boy Drowns in Quarry, Teacher Dies in Fire, Three Lost in Car Crash.

“Accidents,” Lira said, though it sounded weak.

“Patterns,” Ezra corrected. “The bell never rings more than three times a year. The gaps aren’t random. And—”

“Big if,” Ryke cut in.

“—if Callen’s right,” Ezra went on, “we have less than a day to figure out who’s in danger.”

Ryke sat up. “I’m still voting ‘coincidence.’ Also, I keep hearing this… scraping noise. Like somebody dragging a pipe across concrete. Probably nothing. Probably.”

“Or it’s connected,” Ezra said.

Ryke gave him a look. “You’re a real joy at parties.”

Lira opened her mouth, but stopped. Through the fogged glass, she saw movement — slow, deliberate — slipping through the mist. A figure walking away from her house, toward the old wing of the school.

“That’s heading to the bell tower,” she said.

“Which is locked,” Ryke reminded her — but he was already up.

They slipped out the back door, keeping to the sidewalk. The fog was thicker now, clinging low and muffling their steps. Streetlamps hung as pale halos, their posts lost in the haze.

Sound was wrong here — muffled one moment, too loud the next. The crunch of gravel under Lira’s sneakers echoed like boots on hollow wood. Somewhere, a chain rattled, then went still.
“Slow down,” Ezra hissed. His breath showed white in the cold. “If that’s who I think—”

“Who do you think it is?” Ryke asked.

Ezra didn’t answer.

The figure turned down a side street. When they rounded the corner—
It was gone.

The road stretched empty, lined with squat brick houses whose curtains were drawn tight. The fog here felt heavier, pressing from all sides.

Then Lira saw it — a shape on the pavement ahead, black against the mist.

They approached slowly. It was a crow, wings bent wrong, neck at an impossible angle.

In its beak, clenched even in death, was a thin, curved strip of metal, tarnished and worn smooth at the edges.

Ezra crouched and pried it free.

“What is that?” Ryke asked.

Ezra’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Part of a bell clapper.”

Lira’s mouth went dry. The crow’s glassy black eye caught the streetlamp — and for a heartbeat, she could have sworn it moved, following her.
She stepped back.

They didn’t speak much on the walk back. The fog thinned, but the air stayed damp and cold.

At the campus edge, Ryke shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, that was creepy and gross. I’m going home before my mom calls the cops.”

Ezra glanced at Lira. “We’re not done.”

She almost said she was very done, but then her eyes shifted across the street.

A lone figure stood there, half in shadow. Hood up.

Callen.

He didn’t wave or nod. Just tilted his head — a small, precise motion, like someone listening to a sound no one else could hear. Then he turned and walked into the dark.

Lira was alone by the time she climbed back into her room. Her clothes smelled faintly of damp stone and rust, though she couldn’t remember touching either. She closed her window and sat on the bed, listening to the kettle hum downstairs.

And then—

Bong.

Her heart jumped. This chime was softer than the one in detention, but carried the same bone-deep weight.

Before she could decide if she’d imagined it—

Bong.

The second note folded into the first, making the air vibrate like a struck string.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

In the stillness that followed, the whispering came back.

This time, she was sure it said her name.