Film Faraha had always hated silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that hung heavy and slow, like a room holding its breath before something bad happened.
That kind of silence lived in Siriyawit Academy. It waited in the stairwells, echoed faintly in the cracks of the tiles, and stretched itself out like a shadow when no one was looking.
After staying in this school for a while now, Film had grown used to it.
Apart from that, she'd grown used to a lot of things.
The whispers that came after her name. The wary looks from teachers. The unspoken sentence that followed her sister's breakdown two years ago: She'll end up just like her.
But she wasn't her sister. She didn't cry in her sleep. She didn't talk to the walls. She didn't write codes in her notebook and burn them in the garden.
She solved them.
…
It had taken Film six months to map the strange codes left around school. Most were small-scratches into stair railings, carved under desks, etched into the back of the auditorium piano. But the one under the old clock tower bench had remained untouched for over a year. No one ever went to go near it. Everyone knew it was cursed.
Except today.
She saw him, the new boy, Krist Rathanon, sit on the bench like it meant nothing. And then… he looked under it.
He didn't hesitate. Took a photo. Paused.
His shoulders stiffened.
He knows, she thought.
Not just curiosity. More like recognition. His expression was to calm. Too controlled. Like he'd seen it before.
Interesting, she thinks to herself.
Later that evening, the library lights buzzed overhead as Film slipped her forged key into the faculty archive room. The brass door creaked open, revealing rows of dusty folders. Her hands moved quickly thanks to a year of training from snooping through her sister's locked drawers.
She skimmed until she found it: Suphakorn, K.
But only the label remained. The folder itself was missing.
"Of course," she muttered.
Footstep echoed down the corridor. Panic flared in her chest. She closed the drawer, turned off her flashlight, and ducked behind a cabinet.
The steps grew closer. Film held her breath, counting silently.
One, two…seven…ten seconds…
The footsteps stopped. A click.
The door creaked again. Someone entering.
She exhaled slowly and dropped to her knees. If they turned the lights on, she'd be seen.
Then came a voice.
"I know someone's in here."
It wasn't a teacher.
It wasn't even angry.
It was… quiet. Calm.
And it sounded familiar.
Krist.
…
Earlier that day, Krist had been sitting in his room with the photo of the bench code glowing on his screen. He zoomed in on the letters: L.I.D – The whisper begins where the bell ends.
He flipped through his brother's notebook again. He'd missing something.
And there it was, on the inner flap. Scribbled faintly in pencil, a list of dates and initials. One entry stood out.
L.I.D – Lost and Found – 12.01.44
Lost and Found?
A strange guess. But Krist decided to try it.
Down the corridor behind the reception desk, was a locked cabinet where unclaimed items were stored. Krist picked the lock. An old habit his brother had taught him "just in case", and slipped inside.
Amid the cracked phones, spare uniform pieces, and rusted water bottles, one thing stood out.
A sleek, black burner phone. No SIM. No lock screen.
And one recently deleted message.
Krist recover it.
"Stop digging. Or you'll be next."
Sent to his number.
Someone had used this exact phone to threaten him, and then planted it here.
Why?
Were they trying to scare him… or test him?
…
Now, back in the library. Krist turned to the corner and froze.
A figure stood in the dark, back to him, crouched near the faculty cabinets.
He didn't need to see her face to know who it was.
He'd noticed her watching him all day.
"Why are you following me?" he asked quietly.
Film rose without turning around. "Because you're nosing around things that were supposed to stay buried."
Krist stepped closer, wary. "That rich, coming from someone breaking into faculty records."
She finally turned, and her glare was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Don't act like you're clean," she snapped. "You looked under the clock tower bench. Do you know what that code means?"
"Do you?" he shot back.
She blinked.
Krist stepped into the full light, finally seeing her clearly. Her messy hair was tied back with a clip. She looked like someone who didn't sleep much but never gave up.
"I'm not your enemy," Krist said, voice low. "But if you keep trailing me like a ghost, I'll start treating you like one."
A tense silence passed between them.
Film sighed.
"You really don't know anything, do you?"
"I know enough."
"Enough to die?"
That silenced him.
She stared at him, as if seeing something shift behind his eyes. Something haunted.
"Why are you here, really?" she asked, softer now.
Krist hesitated. "I came to finish what someone else started."
"Someone close to you?" she asked, tone suddenly cautious.
He didn't answer.
She nodded slowly. "My sister was found muttering that same phrase. 'The whisper begins where the bell ends.' Everyone said she lost her mind. But she wrote down dozens of codes, patterns, and clues.
Krist felt his chest tighten.
"You kept them?"
Film looked away. "Of course I did."
Another long silence.
"Maybe…" she said carefully, "we're not alone in this."
He met her eyes. For the first time, he saw past the defenses. Past the sarcasm. She was just like him, someone left behind. Trying to piece together someone else's tragedy.
He nodded once.
"Let's talk," he said. "Tomorrow night. After study hour."
She smirked faintly. "Library again?"
"Back of the archive section. No cameras."
"You're not too bad yourself."
…
As they turned to leave the library together, the overhead lights flickered violently.
Then the intercom system buzzed to life with a low static hum.
A voice spoke.
Not a teacher.
Distorted. Unclear. Sound like a male or maybe female. Too warped to tell.
"You're both listening. That's good. But can you hear me when I'm not speaking?"
Krist froze. Film stared at the ceiling; skin gone pale.
Then, just as suddenly, the intercom cut out.
On the far wall near the clock, a strange shape began to glow faintly. A spiral. No, a symbol. Only visible through Krist's eyes, where sound created color and lines.
Another code.
But this one… was moving.