"Anyway," Lorena's voice dropped just a little — not dramatically, just enough to shift the air between them. "Do you ever feel like… something's off today?"
Elija blinked. The question caught her off guard.
"Off how?" she asked, though she already knew what Lorena meant. The day was strange — in that invisible, hard-to-point-at kind of way.
Lorena gave a half-shrug. "I don't know. Just a weird vibe. Like… someone pressed play on the wrong universe."
Elija laughed — but it was quiet, dry.
"This day feels like a bag of uncooked rice," she replied. "Dry. Emotionless. Slightly tragic if you drop it."
Lorena snorted. "Seriously?"
Elija hesitated. Then, with an unusual honesty, she nodded. "Actually? Yeah. Something was weird."
She glanced around the hallway, even though they were mostly alone now — just scattered students behind them. Then she lowered her voice.
"During the break… I went to the bathroom. Just to breathe. I wasn't feeling great."
Lorena's brow furrowed slightly, but she didn't interrupt.
"I thought it was just stress, or maybe those sketchy spaghetti things from lunch," Elija went on. "But then—"
She stopped walking. Just for a beat. The words were harder to form than she expected.
Lorena turned to face her.
"What happened?"
Elija bit her lip. Her hands tightened on the edge of her textbook.
"I bumped into someone. A woman. Tall. Long black coat. White scarf. I didn't really see her face, but… something was wrong with her. With her eyes."
"El," Lorena said softly, trying not to sound alarmed. "What do you mean?"
"I didn't even look into them, not properly," Elija whispered. "But I felt them. You know that feeling when someone's staring at you, not in a creepy way, but like… they're seeing through you? Not just looking, but reading everything that's ever happened inside you?"
"Honestly," Lorena muttered, "that's how I look at pizza. But I get it."
She smiled again, trying to make it light, but her eyes stayed serious.
"Did she say anything?"
"No." Elija shook her head. "Nothing. Just… touched my shoulder. Said, 'Careful'. Her voice was calm, but there was something in it that chilled my spine. It stayed with me."
A silence grew between them — not uncomfortable, but thick with thought.
"Maybe I'm going crazy," Elija added quickly, her voice cracking into an awkward laugh. "Maybe I imagined it. I mean, who feels haunted from a hallway bump?"
"If you're crazy, then I'm long gone," Lorena said without missing a beat. "Weirdness is basically our natural habitat."
Elija looked at her, genuinely grateful. She didn't say thank you, but it was there — behind her eyes.
They walked again. Slower now. Nearing their next class.
"Straight to Edward's torture chamber," Lorena muttered darkly. "If he starts talking about Napoleon again, I swear I'll become a monarchist out of sheer protest."
Elija laughed — the first full laugh since lunch. "Let me know when you start the revolution. I'll bring banners."
"Only if you design the flag," Lorena grinned.
As they reached the classroom, Elija hesitated for half a second before opening the door. She wasn't sure why — but her hand paused on the handle, as if something inside her wasn't quite ready for whatever came next.
The classroom felt... off.
When Elija and Lorena stepped in, the first thing they noticed wasn't the temperature or the quiet murmur of students — it was the silence. Not the usual bored silence of teenagers waiting for their teacher, but a more delicate, waiting kind. Like the room itself was holding its breath.
Edward wasn't there.
That was strange.
He was always there first — scribbling something on the board, sipping too-hot coffee from a chipped mug, making some dry joke about Rome or revolution that only he laughed at.
But now? Just empty space where he should be.
And somehow… that space felt wrong.
"Maybe today's the day we watch the French Empire collapse without adult supervision," Lorena whispered, setting her notebook down with a hopeful grin.
Elija opened her mouth to answer — but then, the door creaked open.
Edward stepped in.
And something was immediately, undeniably off.
His usually crisp blazer was wrinkled, like he'd slept in it. His face was drawn, eyes tired in a way that didn't look
like a late
night grading papers — but more like he'd woken from a dream he wasn't supposed to remember. He moved slower, more deliberate, as if gravity pulled harder on him than on everyone else.
He placed his worn leather satchel on the desk. Looked up.
Said nothing for a moment. Just scanned the room — but not like he was checking attendance.
Like he was trying to see something. Or someone.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual. Slower. Heavy.
"You won't need your textbooks today."
Murmurs flickered across the classroom — a few excited, most confused. Elija didn't move. Something inside her clenched.
"I want to ask you all something," Edward continued. "And I'd like you to take it seriously."
That caught attention.
"Do you believe history can repeat itself?" he asked. "Not metaphorically. Not in patterns. I mean literally. As in… again. Word for word. Step for step."
A soft laugh came from the back. Someone whispered something about time travel.
But Edward's gaze didn't waver.
"I'm not talking about coincidences," he said. "I mean people. Moments. Fates. Reoccurring. Returning. Not as memories — but as themselves."
Elija's skin prickled. She felt it — that strange pressure again, like before in the hallway.
That buzzing, ghostlike sense that something ancient had leaned a little too close.
Edward stepped closer to the desk. Rested his hand on its surface like it was anchoring him to the present.
"Do you think some souls are meant to come back?" he asked, softer now. "Not by choice. But because they have to?"
The classroom had never felt smaller.
Elija's pulse thudded in her ears as Edward stepped forward, one hand clutching the spine of an aged, leather-bound book. It looked ancient — not museum ancient, but something stranger. As if it had been peeled from a memory rather than unearthed from a ruin.
He held it like it mattered. Like it meant everything.
"This book," he said, his voice quieter now, more measured, "is nearly three hundred years old. Found less than twenty kilometers from this town, buried under a collapsed manor. Most of its poetry, personal entries… but one page—one image—has never stopped haunting me."
He turned the book toward the class, fingers careful, reverent. The pages gave a soft, tired sound as they turned — almost like a breath.
"And here's the strange part," he said, angling the book so they could see.
"It's a drawing. A girl. A portrait done in ink. And she…"
He hesitated.
"She looks exactly like one of you."
For a heartbeat, the classroom was made entirely of silence.
Then the whispers started. Someone gasped. Someone laughed — the kind of laugh people give when their brain refuses to process something impossible.
Elija didn't move. Couldn't.
Her breath caught in her throat, and her hands went cold on her desk.
Don't look, she told herself.
But her eyes were already moving.
Across the classroom. Across the distance.
Toward the book.
And there she was.
Her.
Hair falling just the same. The slope of the nose, the quiet tension behind the eyes — not a perfect match, but close enough to make her stomach twist.
It was like looking in a mirror through fog.
Not a reflection, but an echo.
The air around her tightened. A thousand invisible wires pulling at her limbs. Elija's chest rose, shallow, and unsteady.
"Okay," someone muttered behind them, nervous laughter edging into panic. "That's freaky. Like… straight-up horror movie freaky."
"Holy crap," Lorena whispered, frowning. "That's like… dream-level uncanny."
Elija turned her head, slowly. Lorena's eyes were wide but focused, studying the drawing like she didn't trust it.
Like it might move.
And then, without thinking, Elija whispered:
"I've seen that dress before."
Lorena blinked. "Wait, what?"
"In a dream," Elija said, the voice was barely audible. "I've been dreaming about it for weeks. That time period. That dress. That girl. I just… I never saw her face before."
She swallowed. Her heart was racing now, and a pressure was building in the back of her mind — like something long buried was beginning to stir.
Edward said nothing. But he was still looking at her.
Not accusing.
Not questioning.
Just… knowing.
Like he'd expected this. Like he recognized her, not from the classroom, but from somewhere older.
"Is this a prank?" someone asked from the front row, voice brittle with disbelief. "Did you Photoshop that? Is this, like… some psychological experiment?"
Edward didn't answer. He closed the book slowly, as if it physically hurt to do so.
"This girl," he said, eyes still on Elija, "appears multiple times throughout the journal. Referred to only as 'the thread.' As if she wasn't just a person, but something that stitched moments in time together. Over and over again."
Lorena leaned in toward Elija, whispering with mock-concern, "Okay, real talk — did he drink paint thinner this morning?"
"Shh," Elija murmured, but her voice was tight. Her whole body felt coiled.
Something inside her — something ancient and wordless — was listening.
Edward moved away from the desk, stepping slowly toward the window as if the weight of what he carried extended beyond the book.
"People talk about reincarnation," he said, softly now. "But I think it's more complicated than that. I think it's not just souls being reborn. I think sometimes… identities repeat. Shadows of people. Fragments. Like smoke following its source across centuries."
He turned slightly, catching the room in a side glance.
"Or maybe fate just has a cruel sense of déjà vu."
The bell rang.