By the time Lira got home, the fog had followed her.
It pooled in the street outside like someone had tipped over a jar of smoke, swallowing the glow from the streetlamps. Even the crickets were quiet.

Her mother was in the kitchen, humming over the hiss of a boiling kettle. “How was detention?”

“Educational,” Lira said, toeing off her shoes. The word came out flat. Her mind was still back at the bell tower—at the unlocked padlock, the word carved into stone, the whispering that hadn’t been wind.

She carried the sound with her upstairs, past family photos that suddenly felt like paper masks. Her room was the same as she’d left it—bed unmade, window cracked for air—but the air was colder now, edged with that metallic tang she’d noticed in the hallway.

She shut the window.
It didn’t help.

Outside, the streetlamp nearest her house gave a faint, electric shudder—light dimming, then flaring—as if reacting to her. She told herself it was nothing, but she made sure to draw the curtains.

Her phone buzzed. Ezra.

Ezra: We need to talk.
Before she could type a reply, another message appeared.
Ezra: Don’t tell Ryke I texted you.

Lira stared at the screen.

Ezra Hale’s version of “not telling 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 at the glass 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,” Lira said, but she opened the window anyway.

Minutes later, they were sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, Ezra surrounded by books he’d apparently carried from the library, Ryke sprawled like a cat in the sun.

“The bell has rung exactly nine times in recorded history,” Ezra began without preamble. “Each time, someone died within twenty-four hours.”

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

“I’m serious.” Ezra shoved a page toward them, an old news clipping with a black-and-white photo of the bell tower looming over the school. “Accidents, mostly. A drowning, a car crash, a fire—”

“Coincidences,” Lira said, but even to her, it sounded weak.

Ezra shook his head. “Patterns. And if Callen’s right—”

“Big if,” Ryke muttered.

He shifted, glancing toward the wall. “Also, I keep hearing this… scraping noise. Like somebody dragging a pipe across concrete. Probably nothing. Probably.”

“—we have less than a day to figure out who’s in danger.”

Lira opened her mouth to argue, but something outside caught her eye. Through the fogged glass of her window, she saw movement—slow, deliberate—like a figure walking away from her house and into the mist.

And even though it made no sense, she was certain it was heading for the bell tower.
Lira didn’t say a word—just pointed.

Ezra followed her gaze. “Did you see that?”

Ryke craned his neck toward the window. “See what?”

The figure was already half-swallowed by fog, little more than a shifting shadow. It didn’t move like a student sneaking out, or a neighbor walking a dog. It moved like it knew exactly where it was going, and the fog parted for it.

“That’s heading toward the old wing,” Lira said.

“Which is locked,” Ryke reminded her, but he was already on his feet.

They slipped out the back door, keeping to the sidewalk. The fog was thick enough that streetlamps were no more than pale halos in the dark. Sound was wrong here—muted in some places, too loud in others. The crunch of gravel under Lira’s sneakers echoed like boots on hollow wood.

“Slow down,” Ezra hissed. His breath puffed white in the air. “If that’s who I think it is—”

“Who do you think it is?” Ryke asked.

Ezra didn’t answer.

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

The road stretched empty in both directions, lined with squat brick houses whose windows glowed faintly yellow. The fog coiled tighter here, pressing in on all sides.

And that’s when Lira saw it.
A shape on the pavement ahead, black against the pale mist.

They approached slowly. It was a crow, its wings bent wrong, neck at an angle no living thing could survive. In its beak, clenched tight even in death, was a thin, curved strip of metal, dull with tarnish.

Ezra crouched and pried it free. The metal was too heavy for its size, the edges worn smooth.

“What is that?” Ryke asked.

Ezra’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Part of a bell clapper.”

Lira’s mouth went dry.

The crow’s eye—glassy, unblinking—reflected the weak glow of the nearest streetlamp. For a moment, she thought it shifted, following her.
She took a step back.

They didn’t talk much on the walk back. The fog had begun to thin, leaving only a damp chill in its place.

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

Ezra shot Lira a look. “We’re not done.”

She wanted to argue, to say she was done, but something made her glance across the street.

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

Callen.

He didn’t wave or nod. But his head tilted slightly, just enough to suggest he was listening to something the rest of them couldn’t hear.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t nod. Just watched them for a long moment, then turned and walked away 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 edge of her bed, listening to the kettle hum downstairs.

And then—
Bong.

Her heart jumped into her throat.

This chime was softer than the one in detention, but it carried the same bone-deep resonance.

Before she could decide whether she’d imagined it—
Bong.

The second note seemed to fold over the first, a doubling that made the air in her room vibrate.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Somewhere in the quiet after, she thought she heard whispering again—only this time, she was certain it was saying her name.