The hum of conversation filled the hallways of Grendale High, bouncing off lockers and tiled floors like faint echoes in a cathedral. But the atmosphere was still indifferent. As rowdy and excited as it's always been.
Sylan stood at his locker, spinning the dial absentmindedly.
Click. Clack. Click.
He opened the metal door just as a pair of students passed by behind him to a section of the hallway. They both stopped to open their lockers. Their voices were low, hushed, but the words still carried a good level of audibility.
> "Did you hear? A student from Heldale. Dead. They found the body some days ago."
> "Wasn't it a close friend of the mayor's son?"
> "Yeah. I think so too. That school's strange, honestly. Weird energy all the time."
> "It's always the perfect ones who get caught up in stuffs like that."
Sylan froze, hand hovering over his textbook.
Student dead at Heldale?Mayor's son? Friend of his?
He recalled the one friend that Kant was very much close to—Tam.
Kant had mentioned him often—his closest schoolmate. The ginger-haired guy who had a very boisterous nature, the one who borrowed Kant's car for every outing and Kant often said he was sick of him. He was quite a big part of Kant's daily life. Was it that friend?
Sylan shut his locker slowly.
His chest tightened, and he leaned forward against the cool metal, eyes lowered.
The words echoed in his head like thunder. A sinking dread pooled in his stomach.
The front door creaked as Sylan stepped into his house, the afternoon sun barely casting light through the windows. School had ended hours ago, but the weight of the whispers he'd heard in the hallway clung to him like humidity.
A student from Heldale was dead.
Someone said it was the Mayor's son's friend.
Someone said the body had been found in a deserted street.
Someone said—too many things. But all Sylan could hear in the back of his mind was Kant.
He dropped his bag onto the living room couch without even looking, the straps tangling as they flopped onto the cushions. His feet carried him into the kitchen almost on autopilot, past the ticking wall clock and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.
There, on the telephone stand mounted against the wall, sat the cream-colored rotary phone.
He picked up the receiver.
His fingers hesitated over the numbers. The sequence came naturally; he hadn't dialed it in a long time, but muscle memory hadn't forgotten.
0... 7... 4...
Each click felt louder than the last.
8... 3...
He reached the final digit.
His finger hovered.
And stopped.
His breath caught in his chest. What was he even going to say?
"Hey, I heard the news from some students—whose dads are journalists—that a student died in Heldale, and they said he was your friend. Is that true?"
No. No, that sounded careless. Petty. Lame.
What if Kant didn't answer, what if he picked up and didn't even say anything? What if he hung up as soon as he hears his voice? What if—
Sylan shut his eyes tightly. The space between them had already grown too wide. This moment wasn't about him. Kant didn't need him. Not anymore. There'd be plenty of friends and people to rally around him and comfort him if the rumors were true.
He was the mayor's son, after all. His grief would be swallowed in candles, sympathy, and silent nods from important people.
And what was Sylan now?
He wasn't part of that world anymore.
Not part of Kant's anymore.
His hand trembled slightly as he placed the receiver gently back into its cradle. The dial tone cut off with a quiet click. He stepped away from the phone like it might burn him if he lingered any longer.
He stared at it for a few more seconds.
Then turned away.