Xiyan academy's campus didn't usually feel eerie. Sure, it was old. The kind of old where staircases creaked on purpose and windowpanes rattled with wind that wasn't there—but most students chalked that up to "character". Romantic decay. Study aesthetic.
But on Thursday morning, even the air felt hesitant.
It wasn't raining anymore. The sky had turned that stubborn overcast grey that pressed down on everything. Like the clouds weren't just above, but inside.
Ren Kai didn't notice it until he reached the main gates.
Because they weren't open.
He blinked.
That never happened. The gates were always unlocked by 6:45 AM—yet here they were, shut tight, chains looped through the bars.
Kenzo arrived seconds later, earbuds in, still chewing toast. "Did the world end?"
"I don't know," Kai said.
Yuki stumbled up behind them, panting and glaring. "I ran because I thought I was late."
"You are late," Kai murmured.
"Don't start with me."
The gates groaned, then. Just slightly. Like someone had heard them.
But no one came.
Instead, the gate clicked open on its own. The chain, somehow, was undone.
Not broken. Just… unhooked.
The three exchanged glances.
Yuki was the first to break the tension. "I hate when this school tries to be cinematic."
***
The first half of the day passed in a blur. Teachers seemed… distracted. Ms. Aoki gave a quiz and then forgot to collect it. Mr. Tenma wrote the wrong date on the board—twice.
When they entered the cafeteria, the vending machine screen glitched. Kai stared at it a second longer than necessary.
A flicker of the same symbol from the journal.
Only for a second.
Only visible to him.
By the time he looked again, it was gone.
---
After lunch, a student Ren Kai didn't know bumped into him.
"Sorry," the boy muttered, bowing quickly before scurrying away.
Kai had barely registered it—until he felt something cool in his palm.
He opened his hand.
A folded note. Not his.
Inside: a map.
Drawn by hand. Shaky, uncertain lines. No labels—just corridors, staircases, corners, and one red X marked at the base of the eastern tower. The oldest part of the school.
On the back, in the same uneven script:
"Do you remember the library?"
Ren Kai frowned.
There was no library in the eastern wing. That section had been closed for renovations… five years ago.
Everyone knew that.
***
Yuki had detention.
Kenzo had drama club.
Which meant, for the first time in a long while, Ren Kai was completely alone after final bell.
He didn't go home.
He followed the map.
The eastern wing looked worse up close. Dusty windows, peeling walls, silence like molasses.
He ducked under the half-rusted construction tape and found the door at the base of the tower.
It was locked.
He stared at it. Waited.
The wind shifted, carrying a faint sound—a melody again. But this time, played slower. Six notes. Same order. Minor key.
And then the door unlocked with a soft, patient click.
Inside was darkness.
Not the kind that came from absence of light—but the kind that felt like memory.
Like waiting.
He stepped in.
---
The staircase spiraled downward, not upward. That in itself was strange. The tower looked three stories high, but he kept descending past what should've been the building's base.
Dust thickened. The air grew colder. The silence had texture.
And then—at the bottom—he saw it.
A door with no handle. Carved into it, faint and barely visible under years of grime, was the same symbol from the journal. And above it:
"Archive of Echoes."
He pressed a hand to the door.
It opened without resistance.
Beyond it, the air changed.
Rows and rows of books—hundreds, maybe thousands—stretched into the gloom. Shelves taller than his reach. Candles flickered in sconces despite no one lighting them. The flames didn't burn yellow, but blue-white, cold and unwavering.
He stepped in.
And the door closed behind him.
***
At first, the books were gibberish.
Strange languages. Inverted letters. Empty pages.
But then he reached a volume near the center of the hall. No title on the spine.
He opened it.
Inside—sketches.
A woman's face, always turned slightly away.
A battlefield drowned in mist.
A melody, transcribed in looping ink strokes—six notes, again and again.
And then, a name:
Lioren.
The moment he read it, something cracked inside his chest.
Not pain. Not fear. Something older. Like sorrow returning home.
His hand trembled.
At the bottom of the page, more handwriting:
"To remember is to awaken. But memory comes at a price."
Suddenly, the flames in the sconces trembled.
He turned sharply.
Someone was in the room with him.
Not approaching—but watching.
He couldn't see them. Just the impression of presence, hidden deep between the shelves.
"Who's there?" he asked, voice calm but tense.
No answer.
Only the creak of wood, the whisper of a page turning somewhere far back.
He didn't wait.
Kai returned the book and stepped quickly back toward the exit.
But when he tried the door, it wouldn't budge.
He pressed harder.
Still locked.
Behind him, something moved. Not walking. Shifting. Breathing.
He turned slowly.
And for a flickering moment, he saw them:
A figure. Pale eyes. Wrapped in time and shadow. No mouth. Just a symbol carved into their forehead.
Then it was gone.
So was the room.
***
He stood outside.
Back at the base of the eastern tower.
Bright sunlight hit his face like a slap.
No dust. No candles. No door.
Just the sealed-off building and construction tape.
He checked his phone.
Only two minutes had passed.
And yet his shoes were covered in dust.
And his right palm bore a faint, glowing imprint of the symbol.
He didn't speak to anyone that evening.
Didn't respond to Kenzo's memes or Yuki's rant about detention injustice.
He didn't even open the journal again.
But that night, as he sat by the window, the wind brought something new.
Not a melody. Not a name.
A voice.
Clear. Sharp.
"He's beginning to remember."
And then silence.
Not outside. Inside.
The kind of silence that warned:
You're not alone.