Rinos came over after school, still in his uniform, backpack slung over one shoulder, tie loose and top button undone. He looked at me sitting at the table, doing nothing, as if the very act of existing was too heavy for me.
"You look like garbage," he said without a hello.
"Thanks," I replied.
He dropped his bag with a heavy thump and leaned against the table. "Talked to Riya. From bio. She knew Krivya a little. Sat next to her."
I raised my head. "What did she say?"
Rinos pulled out a chair, scraping it across the floor, and sat. "She said Krivya was quiet, but not shy. Quiet because she was busy thinking bigger things, not because she was scared." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. "Gave me this once. She doodled on it."
He slid it across the table toward me, careful, like Rowan had with the photo.
I unfolded it. A photocopy of a class worksheet stared back, margins crowded with a doodle in blue pen. Two stick figures perched on a cliff: one falling with arms out, the other standing at the edge, watching. But the watching figure had a large, round head, and inside that head, another tiny cliff with another stick figure falling, and inside that, a single dot. Perhaps a cliff so small it was invisible. Falling forever. Inside your own head.
Beneath it, in tiny, meticulous letters: Which one is real?
The lines were clean. She knew exactly how to draw.
"She was weird," Rinos said. "Your type of weird."
"What's my type of weird?" I asked, still staring at the spiral of stick figures.
"The kind that thinks so much you forget to live, the kind that sees questions instead of things."
He was right. It fit her. It fit me.
"Did Riya say anything else?" I asked.
"She said Krivya asked strange questions once, in the middle of a lesson about cells. Raised her hand and asked, 'If a cell is a tiny world, are we just cells in a bigger world's body? And is that bigger world just a cell in an even bigger world? Where does it stop?'"
"What did the teacher say?"
"'That's philosophy, not biology. Sit down,'" he replied.
I pictured her hand raised, strands of white hair falling over her shoulder, voice calm, asking the universe a question only to be given the smallest, narrowest answer.
"She was looking for the edge," I whispered. "The place where the world stops. The cliff."
"And she jumped," Rinos said, tone neutral, matter-of-fact.
"Or was pushed," I added softly, unable to stop the thought.
We sat in silence, the hum of the fridge filling the space, the house empty of everyone but us.
"What now?" Rinos asked, breaking the quiet. "You can't sit here forever. School will ask about attendance. The principal."
"I know," I said, rubbing my face, feeling the oil slick across my skin. "I need to do something. But every thought hits a wall."
"So climb the wall."
"How?"
"I don't know. Find a ladder. Make one. You're good at making things up. Make a ladder."
A dangerous thought slithered across my mind.
"I need to talk to someone who really knew her," I said, the words catching in my throat. "Not just a classmate. Her aunt. The police already spoke to her. I haven't."
Rinos's eyes widened. "You want to go talk to the dead girl's aunt? Are you insane? She'll throw something at you. Or call the cops."
"Probably."
"So why?"
"Because the police ask police questions—'Where were you? Did she have enemies?' I want to ask different ones."
"Like what?"
"Like… what did she read? What did she hate about mornings? Did she hum when she was alone? Was she messy or neat? Did she believe in ghosts?"
Rinos stared at me. "You want to know her."
"I think I need to, to understand the picture, the bridge, the me who was smiling."
He shook his head, but a slow grin spread across his face. "You're crazy. When?"
"Now."
"Now?"
"Yes. Before I chicken out."
We took his old black bicycle, me on the back carrier holding tightly to his shoulders as the streets rattled beneath us, teeth clattering with every bump. He knew the address; he had looked it up. "Creepy," he said, but he went anyway.
The apartment building rose four floors, beige paint peeling, balconies dotted with flowers, some thriving, others dead.
"Third floor. 3B," Rinos said. "You sure?"
My heart thudded like a bird trapped in a cage. "No."
But I went in. The stairs reeked of cabbage and disinfectant, each step creaking, TVs blaring behind closed doors, a baby crying in another.
3B. Brown door, small peephole, nameplate: Sharma.
I looked at Rinos. He gave a weak thumbs-up.
I knocked, soft at first, then harder. Footsteps approached. The peephole darkened as someone looked.
The door opened a crack. A woman's face, middle-aged, eyes tired, hair in a messy bun. She studied me, then Rinos behind me.
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Sharma? I… I'm Eryx. I knew Krivya from school."
Her expression closed like a book slammed shut. "The police said not to talk to anyone. Especially you."
The words hit like a slap. Especially you.
"I'm not here to cause trouble. I just… want to understand. I was there on the bridge, but I don't remember… everything. I think maybe we were friends, in a weird way."
Truth, lies, half of each—I didn't know.
Her eyes, red-rimmed, softened ever so slightly. "She didn't have friends."
"Maybe not normal ones," I said, voice trembling. "But she talked to me once. Helped me once, when people were yelling. She pulled me away."
Recognition flickered in her eyes. "She said that. Once. She said she met a boy who was a ghost, who took blame for things he didn't do. She said he was a mirror."
A mirror. The journal had said the same. A reflection.
"I think I was," I whispered. "She saw something in me. And I… I want to know what it was. For me. Not for the police. For me."
Silence stretched. A dog barked somewhere downstairs.
The chain rattled. The door opened.
She was small, in a faded pink housecoat. "Five minutes. Then you go."
Inside, the apartment was tiny but tidy: a floral-covered sofa, small TV, shelves with photos. Krivya as a child, dark hair, gap-toothed smile; then older, white hair, smile gone, mouth a straight line.
"Sit," she said.
We obeyed. She remained standing, arms crossed by the window. "What do you want to know?"
"Why… why was her hair white?"
"It turned when she was twelve, after her parents died in a car accident. Shock," she said flatly, as if reading a weather report.
"Was she… sad?"
She laughed, short and harsh. "Sad? No. Empty. Like a bottle washed ashore, clear inside."
Empty. Hollow. My own words echoed.
"Did she read? Draw?"
"Everything. Science, poetry, strange philosophy books. She drew worlds inside heads, heads inside worlds." She gestured at the doodle in my hand. "Like that."
"Did she talk about death?"
"Not like you think. Not 'I want to die.' More… 'What is death? A door? A window? The end of a sentence, or a story in another book?' She was curious. Too curious."
Curious. Like a scientist.
"The police said… an air embolism. Did she have access to syringes?"
She turned sharply. "Why? To prove she did it herself? To be clean?"
"No. I just… need to know the mechanics."
"She was smart. If she wanted to know something, she found out. Internet, books. She could have gotten anything." Her gaze hardened. "But she didn't. Her room: nothing. No needles, no supplies."
So maybe she didn't bring it. Maybe someone else did. Or maybe she was careful enough to hide everything perfectly.
"What was she like the day she died?"
"Normal. Quiet. Made tea. Washed her cup. Said she'd go for a walk. To think. I warned her not to be late. She was late," Mrs. Sharma's chin trembled.
I whispered, "I'm sorry."
"Why were you smiling?" she demanded, voice sharp. "In that picture. While my niece was dying. Why?"
I had no answer. The me in the photo did; I wasn't him.
"I don't know," I said, voice small.
She studied me. "You don't remember, do you?"
"No."
She sighed. "She would have found that interesting—the loss of memory, the mind splitting to protect itself. Dissociation, she called it."
"Do you think… that's what happened to me?"
"I think you should leave now. And find your answers—not in my house, not in my grief."
We stood. Rinos mumbled thanks.
At the door, I asked one last thing: "Did she… have a blue scrunchie? With white dots?"
Her hand tightened on the knob. "Yes. For her birthday. She rarely wore it. Why?"
"I think… she had it that night. On the bridge."
"How do you know?"
"I saw it in the weeds."
Her eyes filled, not with tears but hardness. "Then it's gone now. Like her. Leave it be."
The door closed softly behind us.
Down the stairs, the cabbage smell thickened. Outside, the sun blinded us.
"Well?" Rinos asked, unlocking the bike.
"She was like me," I said, a cold stone settling in my stomach. "But braver. She went to the edge and looked over."
"And fell."
"Or jumped," I said, climbing onto the carrier. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"The bridge. I need to see the scrunchie again."
"The aunt said leave it!"
"I know. I can't."
The afternoon light stretched long shadows across the road like prison bars.
I knelt at the spot, pushing weeds aside.
It was gone. Blue scrunchie. Flattened grass. Candy wrapper. Crushed soda can.
"You sure this was it?" Rinos asked.
"Yes," I said. The sticker plants, the exact angle from the bridge leg.
Gone.
Maybe an animal took it. Maybe the wind. Maybe the police found it. Or maybe the watcher had returned and taken it.