The rain had stopped just long enough for Greystone’s streets to steam.

From the second-floor window of detention, Lira Cross could see the fog creeping in—soft at the edges, curling between the jagged silhouettes of lampposts. The glass was streaked with grime, muting the last daylight into a dirty gold. Somewhere down the hall, the janitor’s cart squeaked.

She was supposed to be writing an apology essay for “unauthorized use of the science lab’s Bunsen burners.” Instead, her pen rested dead on the paper.

Across the room, Ezra Hale was hunched over a history textbook big enough to be used as a blunt weapon. His pen was moving, but his eyes kept flicking to the clock. Ryke Sato had tipped his chair back on two legs, chewing gum and staring at the ceiling like it might blink first. Callen Vey—Greystone Academy’s resident ghost in human form—sat near the door, hood up, scribbling in a notebook that no one had ever been allowed to see.

They weren’t friends. They weren’t even really classmates, not in the sense that mattered. The only thing they had in common was that they were all here.

And then the air changed.

It was subtle—just enough for the hairs on her arms to stand. The light seemed thicker, the quiet heavier. The clock ticked, and each sound landed with a hollow weight.

And then—

Bong.

The sound rolled through the walls like thunder caught in a glass jar. It wasn’t the school’s digital bell system; this was deeper, older, the kind of chime that made you think of stone towers and iron ropes. The vibration sank into her ribs, rattled the bones in her hands.

It rang only once. The last echo of the bell faded… but something lingered.

A faint, metallic drag, too slow to be wind, came from somewhere high in the tower.

Lira froze, listening. Probably a loose shutter, she told herself. Or the janitor. Definitely the janitor.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was listening. 

Lira looked around. Ezra’s pen was frozen in mid-word. Ryke’s chair legs thudded down, his mouth hanging open. Callen had stopped writing, but his hood tilted just slightly, like he’d been expecting it.

No one else reacted. In the hallway, the janitor’s cart squeaked again.

“Uh,” Ryke said slowly, “did we all just—”

“It’s not possible,” Ezra cut in, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “That bell hasn’t—”

“—rung in fifty years,” Callen finished, voice low.

Ryke grinned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And if it rings once—just once—”

Lira felt the words before he said them.

“—someone’s gonna die.”

Lira set her pen down. “That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be funny.” Ryke’s voice had the easy, drawling shape of someone who was always trying to be funny.

Ezra’s chair scraped across the tile as he turned toward the door. “It’s impossible. The tower’s been sealed since—”

The detention supervisor, Mr. Hartwell, didn’t even look up from grading papers. “Sit down, Hale.”

“But—”

“Sit. Down.”

Ezra shot a frustrated look at Lira, as if she had any say in the matter. She didn’t. She was just trying to decide whether that sound had been real or whether she’d collectively hallucinated with three near-strangers.

When the hour finally ran out, Hartwell dismissed them with the same level of enthusiasm one might show to watching paint dry. The hallway outside felt strangely warmer than the room had been, though the air carried a faint metallic tang, like old coins in the mouth.

Students were heading toward the exits, laughing, shoving, living in a world where the bell tower was just an architectural relic. Lira fell into step with the others without intending to.

Ezra was muttering to himself. “Fifty-two years, eleven months, twenty-seven days—”

“Are you keeping track of anniversaries now?” Ryke asked.

Ezra didn’t answer.

Callen walked at the edge of the group, his hood shadowing his face. He didn’t speak, but Lira noticed his hand brushing the wall as they passed—a casual touch, except his fingers seemed to pause when they hit certain spots in the stone. Like he was searching for something.

They reached the front steps. The fog was thicker now, spilling over the low stone wall that ringed the campus. Greystone’s streets were smudged into watercolor shadows.

Ezra stopped short. “We should check the tower.”

Ryke snorted. “Yeah, because breaking into a condemned building after hours sounds like a great life choice.”

Ezra turned to Lira, as if she were the deciding vote. “You heard it.”

Lira hesitated. She wanted to say no. To go home, eat dinner, and forget about the way that single chime had crawled under her skin. But Callen’s voice—quiet, deliberate—cut in first.

“If you wait until tomorrow,” he said, “you won’t find anything.”

That made everyone pause.

Ryke eyed him. “And you would know this how?”

Callen didn’t answer. He just started walking down the steps, into the fog. 

Lira cursed under her breath and followed. Outside, the fog curled low over the grass, not drifting so much as pooling. When she stepped off the path, it slid after her ankles like something with a mind.

The bell tower loomed at the far end of campus, attached to the oldest wing of the school. Up close, it smelled of damp stone and rust. The iron gate at its base was chained and padlocked, but the wood door beyond was warped with age.

Ezra rattled the chain. “Still locked. Which means—”

“—no one could’ve rung it,” Ryke finished, arms folded.

“Or,” Callen said, “it doesn’t matter if it’s locked.”

Before anyone could question him, a sound broke the night—not the deep chime from before, but something smaller. A faint click, like a latch shifting.

The padlock hung open.

They all stared at it.

Ryke let out a low whistle. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”

Lira’s heart was a drum in her ears. She didn’t believe in curses. She didn’t believe in folklore. But she also didn’t believe in doors unlocking themselves.

Ezra pushed the gate open, and the hinges groaned like something waking up after a long sleep.

Inside, the air was cooler, denser. Dust motes spiraled in their flashlight beams. The spiral staircase stretched up into darkness, the steps worn concave by generations of feet.

They didn’t climb it. Not yet.

Something was scratched into the first step—a single word, shallow but deliberate.

LISTEN.

Lira’s throat went dry.

Ryke crouched, tracing the letters. “Creepy graffiti. Classic.”

Ezra crouched beside him. “This isn’t spray paint. The grooves are decades old.”

Before they could argue more, a sound drifted down from the darkness above.

It wasn’t the bell.

It was… whispering.

Too soft to make out words, too steady to be the wind.

Callen’s gaze was fixed upward. “It’s waiting.”

The flashlight in Lira’s hand trembled slightly. She wanted to turn and run, but her feet didn’t get the message.

The whispering stopped.

And in the silence that followed, she swore she heard the echo of that single, heavy chime—so faint it might have been memory.

Halfway home, a black crow landed on the sidewalk ahead. It didn’t startle when she got close. Just turned its head, one beady eye fixed on her, as if waiting for something. She crossed the street to get around it, and only then did it lift into the fog.