The room was too quiet.
The world felt like it had stopped entirely as Nola wondered how she had gotten herself in this situation.
Nola sat still in the hard wooden chair across from the desk, back straight, hands locked in her lap, eyes lowered to avoid anyone's gaze.
Her parents stood behind her. They were as silent and stiff as her.
"Miss Makinoshi," Principal Marsten began, voice low and tight. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
Nola said nothing. What was there left to say?
The air in the office was stifling with the smell of old papers, the lingering tang of disinfectant and disappointment. Her nose itched but she didn't dare move to scratch it.
The principal's eyes were narrow and sharp as they flicked toward her parents before settling back on her.
"Three schools," he said slowly, as if tasting each syllable. "Three institutions with strong reputations and ample patience. And yet—"
He sighed, a heavy thing filled with finality.
"—Each one has met catastrophe within months of your enrollment."
Her mother shifted behind her. Nola heard the gentle rustle of silk, then the smallest intake of breath. Her father remained stone silent.
Nola kept her eyes on the desk which was marred with tiny knife-grooves and ink-stains from generations of previous problem students.
Thoughts raced across her mind.
'You don't belong. You're trouble. You're the kind of girl who breaks things without trying.'
Principal Marsten rose from his chair. His footsteps were precise, deliberate, as he walked around the desk. He stopped beside her and gestured toward the large arched window behind them.
"You know what's out there, don't you?"
Of course she did.
Nola slowly turned her head. Even from three floors up, she could see the East Wing tower, at least what was left of the East Wing tower.
The explosion had happened just yesterday. During lunch.
She hadn't been there when it happened.
She hadn't done anything.
But she was the one of the only students whose dorm room had been inside that tower. The only one mysteriously absent at the time.
And the most damning thing of all, the only one with a prior record of 'unpredictable magical incidents.'
"There are witnesses who say you were acting strangely in the days leading up to it," the principal said slowly.
"The lights in your room were flickering. Books were seen flying off shelves. A humming noise was coming from under your bed."
Nola blinked. She hadn't told anyone about that.
He knelt slightly, lowering his face to her level.
"Tell me, Miss Makinoshi. Do you remember anything from yesterday morning? Anything unusual?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
Because the truth was that there had been something. Something that whispered to her through the pipes when the building went quiet.
Something that filled her head with static, like her mind felt like it was a radio losing signal. Something white and warm and endless—
And then nothing.
Her hands trembled in her lap.
The principal straightened, adjusted his collar, and moved back to his desk.
"We are not accusing you of terrorism," he said flatly. "But the risk you present to this institution is no longer theoretical. You're a liability. And regardless of intent, this school cannot support students who invite disaster."
Her mother's voice cracked like dry parchment.
"Please," she said. "She's just a girl. She doesn't—"
"She's sixteen," the principal snapped, then caught himself. He exhaled. Lowered his voice again.
"She's sixteen. And she's already been at the epicenter of three catastrophic events. That's not bad luck. That's a pattern."
Nola felt her chest cave a little more.
She wanted to scream and cry. To punch the desk and insist she wasn't some monster born of chaos.
That she was just…different. Just quiet. But the words stayed locked in her throat held back by something.
"I regret to inform you," Principal Marsten said, sitting once more, "that effective immediately, Nola Makinoshi is expelled from Gold Branch Academy. Permanently."
He looked at her this time—not with anger, but with something worse, pity.
"We sincerely hope you find a place better suited to… her needs."
Her parents didn't move.
Her mother's hands fluttered nervously, like birds with clipped wings. Her father's jaw clicked once.
And Nola?
Nola just sat there, frozen inside herself.
The walk out of the school felt like a public execution.
She didn't raise her head as they passed students in the halls—some watching with curious eyes, others whispering behind raised hands.
She didn't look at the faculty who pretended not to see her. Or the hall monitor who shuffled out of her way like she was contagious.
By the time they reached the car, the silence between her and her parents had become its own kind of pain. Bloated, suffocating, ready to snap at the smallest sound.
The car door clicked open. She slid into the back seat. No one said a word.
Her mother sniffled once and reached for a tissue.
Her father drove.
She didn't cry.
Not when they passed the cracked archway of the school gates. Not when they reached the outskirts of town and the trees blurred past the windows.
Not even when her mother whispered, "Maybe this time… maybe this time someone can help her."
Nola didn't need help.
She needed answers.
Answers to the humming, the flickering, the pull in her chest when the world went quiet.
Answers to why buildings broke when she walked by.
Why did the lights die when she cried.
Why shadows sometimes reached for her without warning.
But none of the schools had answers.
They had lectures. Fear. Expulsion letters.
And now?
Now, she had nothing.
Except the low, growing certainty in her gut that she was no longer just a girl being pushed out of ordinary spaces.
She was something that didn't fit.
Something that the world was trying very hard to keep out.The front door clicked shut behind them with a soft finality.
Nola kicked off her shoes in the hallway, leaving them half-tangled on the mat. Her mother didn't scold her. Her father didn't even glance down.
The house was too quiet. Not the comforting kind of silence—no crackling fireplace or clatter of pots in the kitchen. Just the thick, heavy kind that settles after disappointment.
They didn't ask her to sit down or explain herself.
They didn't have to.
She walked into the living room and curled up on the far end of the couch, arms wrapped around her knees painfully.
The curtains were drawn tight, but thin golden light still leaked through the fabric. It made the dust in the air sparkle gloriously,
Her mother disappeared into the kitchen, and her father hovered in the hallway not knowing what to do.
She felt no hunger.
Didn't want to talk.
Didn't even want to sleep.
Just be.
The soft clinking of dishes came from the kitchen—her mother making tea, probably. Not because Nola wanted it, but because doing something, anything, helped her feel useful.
Her father finally settled into the recliner with a long, tired sigh, but didn't turn on the TV. He just seemed to stare at the blank screen.
After several minutes, her mother returned with a porcelain mug and placed it gently on the side table next to her.
Chamomile. No sugar. Just how Nola liked it.
She didn't thank her.
Her mother didn't seem to expect it.
Instead, she sat beside her, not touching, just there. Present. Breathing. Waiting, as mothers do.
"I'm not angry," she said softly. Her hand reached Nola's face pushing a strand of hair off her face.
Nola didn't respond.
Nola's throat tightened.
Her father cleared his throat from across the room. "I may have… overreacted last time. The second expulsion. That headmaster was a jackass anyway."
Nola turned her head slightly, surprised. Her father rarely cursed, and never about authority figures. He was all discipline and order and clean shoes.
He met her gaze.
"There's something strange about you, yes. But strange doesn't mean wrong."
That sentence hung in the air longer than it should've.
Then her mother added gently, "We just want you to be safe. To be somewhere you're understood."
Nola's lip trembled.
Her parents didn't ask for explanations.
They didn't push.
They just sat there with her.
And in that fragile moment, the house didn't feel quite as heavy anymore.