"What happened?" Ethan asked, eyes narrowing as he studied the two people in front of him.
"The monster—I was being chased by one in the corridor," he said, breath still uneven at the memory.
"A monster?" The girl with gray-streaked hair tilted her head toward the boy with green-blue hair beside her. "The Recordatio is supposed to take the listener on a trip down memory lane, not summon nightmares."
"Yeah…" The boy scratched his neck. "Harper and I might've played a few notes wrong, but nothing that should do that." He offered a crooked grin. "Oh—sorry. I'm Syd Fortune, and this is Harper Alison Lee."
"You didn't have to say my middle name," Harper muttered, elbowing him.
"Why not? It's pretty," Syd said with a chuckle. "You're the new pupil, right?"
"Yeah. Ethan Von Claude." Ethan tilted his head. "How did you even do that? Is that your…what's it called—your will?"
"Will? Oh, no. That was just a piece Ms. Park composed. But Harper's will is tied to music, and I—well—I can see a bit of the future," Syd said with a small smile.
"A bit?" Harper teased. "You predicted George would build a flying jetpack."
"Correction: I predicted he'd fall wearing a flying jetpack," Syd replied. Then he focused on Ethan. "I heard you don't remember your past. Did the Recordatio help?"
"Yeah, but something…a monster stopped me, like it was blocking my memory," Ethan said, the image still vivid.
"Maybe you're repressing something," Harper said softly. "Or something doesn't want to be remembered."
"My sister might help," Syd offered. "Unlike me, she can actually see the past. But we'd need something from yours."
"Would an old notebook work?" Ethan asked, gripping his bag.
"Yeah, that could do," Syd said.
A melodic bell rang through the hall.
"Oh, right—Mind and Consciousness Training." Ethan's eyes widened. "Do you know where that is?"
"Mrs. Primrose's class? Fourteen doors to the right," Harper said.
"We'd better run. I'll ask my sister and let you know," Syd added, slinging Harper's cello and his own violin over one shoulder. "Nice meeting you, Ethan."
Ethan jogged off, counting doors. Seven…ten…twelve…thirteen—wait.
No more doors. Only a massive painting of a tree-dark forest.
He scanned the walls. "706…707…708…709 should be here, but…" He frowned at the painting.
"Are you lost?"
Ethan nearly yelped. A lad stood behind him, hair a pale spring green falling to his shoulders. His skin was light beige, uniform pristine white with a black brooch—simple shirt, white trousers—and a white blindfold covering his eyes.
"Yeah," Ethan admitted.
"709, right?" the stranger said. "I'm Jamie Bluebell."
He extended a hand—slightly off target.
Ethan stepped sideways to meet it. "Ethan. Ethan Von Claude."
"Class is over there." Jamie pointed toward the great painting.
Ethan blinked. "But…that's a painting. There's no door."
"Really? I don't think so." Jamie smirked.
Before Ethan could reply, Jamie walked straight into the painting and vanished.
"What the—?" Ethan stepped closer, reaching out.
A sudden hand shot from the canvas and yanked him inside.