The hallways of Hollowfield School were buzzing with chaos, but for Emily, it felt like a storm she could never escape.
She tried to walk past the crowd, head down, but a group of older kids blocked her path.
"Hey, ghost hair," one sneered. Another laughed. "Bet we can make her look even prettier."
Before Emily could react, sticky pink gum was smashed into her white hair. She froze, horror spreading across her face. She didn't say a word—her hands trembled as she tugged at the mess, but the bullies just laughed harder.
"Aw, come on! Go ahead, cry." one moved closed and said
"Oh wait you can't, because you are a ghost."
Emily's eyes stung with tears, but she stayed silent, biting her lip so hard it almost hurt. The hall felt colder than ever, like everyone was watching her fail.
No one came to help. No one ever did.
The next morning, Emily dragged her feet through the cold hallways of Hollowfield School, her white hair falling like a curtain over her face.
When she reached her locker, she froze. A small, crumpled note was wedged between the metal doors.
Her hands shook as she picked it up. The handwriting was jagged and hurried, almost like it was written in anger.
"Come to school at 9, alone."
Emily's stomach twisted. Her heart raced, but she didn't say a word.
No one was around—just the echo of her own footsteps in the empty corridor.
Her mind spun. Who could have left this? And what truth were they talking about?
She shoved the note into her pocket, her fingers curling around it like a lifeline.
The school was silent that night. Only the soft buzz of the lights and the echo of Emily's steps filled the hallway.
She followed the note's directions, her fingers tight around the paper. But when she turned the corner—she stopped dead.
Laughter.
Bullies.
Whispers.
And then she saw —fire.
Her notebooks, her bag, her favorite sketchbook—all piled on the floor, flames licking the edges. The bullies stood around it, smiling.
"Oops?" one said, laughing.
Emily's eyes widened, her throat tightening. She tried to run toward the fire, but one of them shoved her back. "Don't bother, ghost girl. It's too late."
The flames grew higher, smoke curling toward the ceiling. Suddenly—
BEEEEP!
The fire alarm shrieked. Red lights flashed across the hallway as cold water poured from the sprinklers above, soaking everyone.
The bullies screamed, running in all directions, but Emily just stood there. The water drenched her hair, her clothes, her tears mixing with the drops on her cheeks.
She watched the last bits of her things crumble to ash under the water.
For a moment, she didn't move. She just stood in the middle of the smoke and sprinklers—silent, heartbroken, but still standing.
By the time Emily got home, her clothes were still damp and smelled faintly of smoke.
Emily stepped into her house, her clothes still damp and sticking to her skin.
Immediately, her family's eyes flicked to her… but not with concern.
"Ugh! Get out of my way before you ruin the floor," her mother snapped, glaring at the water dripping from Emily's hair and sleeves.
Her father didn't even look up from his newspaper. "Why is the house wet? Do you want to ruin everything we own?"
Emily's stomach sank. She opened her mouth, ready to say something, but no one cared what she had to say.
Then her older brother appeared from the hallway. His smirk was cruel, his eyes gleaming. "Look at you," he said mockingly. "Pathetic. Always making a mess, always a problem."
Emily flinched as he stepped closer, looking down at her like she was nothing.
"Can't you do anything right?" he spat. "You're just useless. Wet, messy, annoying—what a joke."
Her mother waved a hand impatiently. "Go to your room. Don't ruin anything else in this house. And make it quick."
Emily's hands trembled. She was shivering, cold and wet, but no one offered a coat, a towel, or even a kind word.
They didn't care about her. Not one bit.
Her brother laughed as she shuffled past him. "Honestly, … I don't even know why she exists."
Her red eyes stung, but she said nothing. She just moved quietly, trying not to be noticed, like she always did.
When she reached her small, cracked-wall bedroom, she shut the door, curled up on the bed, and finally let herself cry.
The tears came fast—quiet, shaking sobs that soaked her pillow.
Then, exhaustion pulled her under.
She fell asleep.
…
When Emily opened her eyes again, sunlight poured through tall glass windows. The air smelled clean, warm, and soft—like flowers.
She woke up fast.
The walls weren't cracked. The bed wasn't small. Everything around her was bright white and gold, like something from a dream.
Silk curtains drifted in the morning breeze. A chandelier sparkled above her.
Her heart raced. "What… where am I?" she whispered.
This wasn't her home.
It wasn't even close.
Outside the window, she could see gardens stretching endlessly, fountains glittering in the light.
It looked like a mansion.
But she had no idea how she got there.
Emily's heart was still pounding as she stared around the bright, unfamiliar room.
Everything looked too perfect—like a painting that didn't belong to her life.
Then—
knock knock.
The door creaked open.
A woman stepped inside. She looked elegant, dressed in a soft blue dress, her hair tied neatly behind her.
Her smile was gentle… but something about it felt off, like it was too practiced.
"Oh, good morning, Jenny," the woman said warmly. "You're awake."
Emily blinked. "Jenny…?" she whispered, confused. "My name's not—"
But the woman interrupted. "Now, now, dear, no need for jokes so early. Breakfast is ready. Everyone's waiting for you."
Everyone?
Emily's stomach twisted. Her voice caught in her throat. She wanted to ask who this woman was, or why she was calling her Jenny, but the words just… wouldn't come out.
The woman stepped closer, brushing invisible dust off the blanket.
"Come on, sweetheart," she said in a tone that was both kind and strange. "Your family will be so happy to see you again."
Family?
Emily froze. She didn't have a family like that.
So who were they talking about?
Emily blinked, staring at the woman's smile.
It didn't make sense. None of this did.
Emily thinked. "Where am I?"
The woman tilted her head, her red eyes sweetly but strangely. "At home, where else would you be?"
The two boys just kept eating, quietly, like this was normal. Like she'd always been there.
Emily's stomach twisted. The smell of the sweet breakfast suddenly made her feel sick. She looked down at her hands—they were clean, warm, and… her fingernails looked shorter than she remembered.
Her mind raced. What is happening?
The man at the head of the table spoke again, his voice calm but heavy.
"You've had a rough night, Jenny. The doctor said you might be… confused for a while."
Emily's head shot up. "Doctor?"
The woman quickly stood, smoothing Emily's hair with a too-gentle hand. "No more questions before breakfast, okay? Eat , you'll feel better."
Emily wanted to step back—but her body felt heavy. Like the air itself didn't want her to leave.
Then she noticed something behind them.
On the wall above the fireplace was a painting.
It was her.
Same white hair. Same red eyes.
But underneath it, written in golden letters, was one name:
Jenny Raven
Emily's stomach dropped. Her throat tightened, like she couldn't breathe.
"That's… that's me," she said quietly.
The woman only smiled. "Of course it's you, who else would it be?"
Emily stepped back, shaking her head. "What? No - "
The man stood up, tall, his voice smooth.
"Enough. Sit down and eat before it gets cold."
He sounded mad.
Emily sat down slowly, her hands trembling in her lap. The food looked perfect—golden toast, berries, warm milk—but she didn't feel like eating
Outside, the sunlight dimmed behind passing clouds, and for just a second, the reflection in the silver teapot on the table as she looked at her face was different.