A week had slipped through Amber Ashford's fingers, though each day felt less like time and more like a stone sinking, drawing her further into the cold waters of Grimrose Academy.
The mornings began with rain and ended with silence. Lessons, meals, halls lined with gazes that weighed rather than welcomed—it was all routine now, but the unease never dulled.
That morning was no different. The storm still reigned outside, its fingers clawing the stained-glass windows of the dining hall. Amber entered quietly, boots clicking against the polished floor, already aware that Dhani would be waiting.
The girl's dark eyes lit the moment she spotted her. "Here," Dhani called softly, patting the space beside her.
Amber slid onto the bench. "You never miss the chance to claim me first."
"Of course," Dhani replied with a teasing tilt of her head. "If I don't, someone else might steal you, hai na?"
Amber let out a faint laugh, rare but genuine. "I doubt that."
The two ate together, the sound of cutlery and murmured conversations swelling around them. Yet Amber noticed, as she often did, Elias Moreau's eyes flick toward her once before hardening and turning away. That cold dismissal scraped something raw inside her.
"Do not mind him," Dhani murmured, following Amber's glance. "Some carry their storms behind their eyes."
Amber lowered her gaze, her voice nearly a whisper. "So do I."
Breakfast ended, and classes soon swallowed the morning. Latin with Mr. Graham was endless as always—verbs, declensions, the sharp rap of his stick when someone faltered. Etiquette with Ms. Rosary was no better, every gesture scrutinized until Amber's shoulders ached from holding herself too straight.
By midday, her lungs longed for freer air, for something beyond ink and stone. She drifted after lessons, her feet carrying her not toward the dormitory but to the shadowed wing where she had once heard faint piano notes.
The corridor stretched long and narrow, dust clinging to the corners. She paused at the practice hall door. It groaned open under her hand, the scent of polish and damp wood seeping into her senses.
The grand piano waited in the center, its black body dulled by time. A yellowed score rested on the stand, notes blurred like secrets on the verge of fading.
Amber stepped closer, brushing the surface but not pressing a key. The silence of the room felt too sacred.
"Do you play?"
The voice startled her. She spun toward the corner.
Jonas Whitlock stood in the shadows, a journal under his arm. His figure was still, his eyes steady in their quiet way—watching, never intruding.
Amber swallowed. "Not well enough for anyone to hear."
Jonas's mouth shifted, not quite into a smile, but into something thoughtful. "Sometimes silence makes the best music."
Her brows knit. "Silence isn't music. It's… absence."
"Or it's what reveals the notes when they come," he countered, stepping closer. "Most people are afraid of it. You're not."
Amber faltered under his gaze, her fingers twitching against her skirt. She wanted to argue, but the words refused to form.
Jonas tapped the journal absently. "That's why I write. To catch what lingers in silence, what others rush past."
Her voice came out lower than intended. "And what if the truth you catch isn't yours to hold?"
His dark eyes lifted to hers, unwavering. "Then it becomes dangerous."
The word hung heavy in the air.
Amber turned back to the piano, pressing one key. A fragile note trembled through the hall, rising and fading like breath in winter air.
"Why tell me this?" she asked.
Jonas didn't answer at once. He ran his thumb along the leather spine of his journal, as if weighing his response. Finally: "Because you look. Most don't. You notice when others pretend not to. That's rare here."
Amber's chest tightened. His words felt less like flattery and more like recognition—like he had seen something she hadn't meant to show.
She looked away quickly, letting her voice drop. "Noticing doesn't mean I understand."
"No," Jonas agreed softly. "But it means you will."
The storm rattled the tall windows, thunder rolling somewhere distant. Amber shivered though the hall was not cold. She felt his eyes on her still, steady and unreadable.
A burst of laughter erupted in the corridor outside, footsteps echoing past the door. Amber flinched at the intrusion, but Jonas didn't move, didn't so much as blink.
When silence fell again, he closed the piano lid gently. "You should be careful." His tone lowered, almost secretive. "Grimrose doesn't forgive curiosity. Some truths cut deeper than any silence ever could."
Amber's lips parted. "You speak as if you already know."
Jonas's jaw tightened, but he gave no denial. Instead, he moved toward the door. His hand lingered on the frame before he glanced back once. "Keep your eyes open, Amber Ashford. The Academy doesn't sleep when the lamps go out."
And then he was gone, footsteps fading into the corridor's endless hush.
Amber stood motionless. The piano loomed before her like an unspoken invitation. Slowly, she pressed another key. The note bled into silence, and she whispered, "Quiet, but never blind."
Her own words sounded strange, like someone else had placed them in her mouth.
As she turned to leave, she noticed something half-hidden near the window: a slip of parchment beneath the edge of the piano. Kneeling, she pulled it free. The paper was brittle, corners frayed. A single line was scrawled across it in hurried ink:
"You still dream of the friend who never woke."
Her breath caught. The words burrowed under her skin, colder than the mist that clung to the academy walls. It was impossible. No one here could know about her—the girl from her childhood, the only soul who had ever understood her silence before death stole her away. Amber had never spoken of her, not once.
Her eyes darted across the empty corridor. Jonas had already left; she could hear his footsteps fading into the stairwell. He had been the only one near her desk… hadn't he?
Amber pressed the note flat against her palm, feeling its fibers like a pulse. For a heartbeat, she wanted to run after Jonas, demand an explanation—but the image of his withdrawn gaze and guarded journal rose in her mind. No. If he had written this, she wasn't ready to know why.
She slipped the parchment inside her book and closed it with a snap. The portraits looming above seemed to lean closer, their painted eyes reflecting secrets she could not yet name.
As she walked back to her room, the note's words echoed like a tolling bell, following her up the winding staircase.
And though she did not know it, in t
he shadows beyond the hall, a pair of watchful eyes observed her retreat—calm, patient, waiting.