The morning in Green Walls carried the sharp bite of frost, the kind that clung to windows and numbed fingertips even through gloves. The streets were still dusted white, smoke from brick chimneys rose in faint curls, and the sound of carriage wheels and boots crunching snow echoed through the narrow lanes. Green Walls was not a city of grand industries or glittering nightlife; its soul belonged to shopkeepers who opened their wooden shutters with practiced creaks, to teachers whose routines mirrored the old bells of the high school, and to the scattered policemen who patrolled with lazy familiarity in a town where nothing much happened. There were no bars, no clubs, no neon lights—only bonfires lit in empty squares where people gathered at night with mugs of banana milkshakes, warming hands and swapping stories. By morning, the embers were cold, and the air filled with the cries of vendors pushing carts, the scent of baked bread, and the distant toll of Green Walls High's bell calling students through the snowy air.
Nyx Gald walked alone down these streets, his dark coat trailing behind him, his boots crunching snow in deliberate steps, his expression as unreadable as ever. He moved like a shadow among colors, sharp against the whiteness of the city, his green eyes fixed forward as if nothing in this world could distract him.
The high school sat near the heart of the city, an old stone building crowned with frost, its spires reaching into the pale sky. Students flooded the steps, their chatter a burst of life against the silence of winter. Inside, the wooden corridors echoed with hurried footsteps, the smell of chalk and damp paper mixing with the faint perfume of pine carried in from the forests. Nyx walked through the crowd without looking left or right, his presence both commanding and isolating. He searched quietly for Joey Grey, the boy who had tossed him the book just days ago, but Joey was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, Nyx found Bob Grey, Joey's younger brother, with the same brown hair but a friendlier, less careless face. Bob adjusted the strap of his satchel and nodded at Nyx before Nyx's quiet voice cut through the hallway.
"Where's Joey?"
Bob sighed. "He left the city early this morning, running some errand. Won't be back until evening."
The words struck Nyx more deeply than Bob realized, and though his face remained calm, inside he burned with impatience. Every second Joey was gone felt like a barrier between him and the secret the book promised.
The first bell rang, and students hurried into Miss Anora's mathematics class. The room smelled of chalk dust, ink, and the faint perfume Anora always wore. She was a young teacher, elegant in posture, with sharp brown eyes softened only by her affection for her students. As the class chorused "Good morning, Miss Anora," she immediately spotted Nyx at his desk, sitting unusually still, his chin resting on his hand, his gaze distant, his face carved in quiet desperation. Unlike the others, he had not greeted her.
She crossed the room, her heels clicking softly against the old wooden floor, and stopped at his desk. Her voice lowered, gentle but firm.
"Why so melancholic, Nyx? Is there a problem?"
Nyx blinked, pulled from his thoughts, and for the first time broke his silence. His voice was low, deliberate, each word placed carefully.
"I'm sorry for not wishing you good morning, Miss. I was lost in thought. Just exams… nothing more."
Anora studied his pale face, his intense eyes, and gave him a smile.
"You need not worry, my dear. You are bright—one of the best. If anyone should be worried, it's Ralph and Stacy Lauren." She turned sharply toward the siblings. "If you two don't score well this year, I will detain you both in this class despite your age. Do you understand?"
The room erupted with laughter, Ralph's face darkened with fury, and his glare found Nyx, as if it were Nyx's fault he had been humiliated.
Stacy, however, had no glare to give. Her eyes had already drifted toward Nyx, her heart pounding harder than the laughter of the room. She had always liked him, admired him from the quiet corners of corridors, the way he carried himself with mystery, the way his silence spoke louder than words. But she knew he was unreachable, a figure too far above her, like a star—visible, beautiful, but untouchable.
Still, when Miss Anora began the lecture on Differential Equations, Stacy's heart wavered between equations and her own restless daydreams. Anora's chalk tapped the board as she wrote:
"Solve: dy/dx + 2y = e^x. General solution?"
She explained step by step, voice crisp, elegant in logic.
"We use the integrating factor method here. Multiply through by e^(2x). The left side becomes the derivative of y*e^(2x). Integrate both sides. The solution is y = (1/3)e^x + Ce^(-2x)."
Her hand moved quickly, her explanations clear. Students scribbled, some attentive, some lost. Then she gave them exercises:
"Solve: dy/dx – 3y = 6x."
She ordered the class to complete the problems before she returned from the staff room.
As the classroom filled with the scratch of pens, Stacy froze. The numbers tangled, her palms grew damp, and her throat tightened. The page blurred with symbols she couldn't control, panic rising like a tide. She looked around nervously, her breath catching. Unable to bear it, she slipped from her seat and rushed to the washroom, splashing water on her face, whispering to herself that she couldn't fail again.
By the time she returned, Miss Anora was back at the front of the class, her sharp gaze sweeping over the students.
"Stacy Lauren," she said suddenly, her voice like a blade. "Bring your copy. Do problem number two on the board."
Stacy's knees weakened, dread spilling through her veins. She flipped open her notebook in trembling hands, and her breath caught—because the problem she had left blank was already solved. Every step was written neatly, elegantly, in handwriting that wasn't hers.
Her eyes widened as realization struck: Nyx. He had done it, without asking, without announcing. Her heart fluttered violently, butterflies storming in her chest. As she walked to the board, her nerves melted into awe. She copied the solution, her hand steady now, and the board filled with flawless steps. Anora's eyes narrowed, suspicious, then softened.
"Very good, Stacy. If only you were always this diligent."
The class buzzed, Stacy returned to her seat trembling, and her eyes flicked toward Nyx. He wasn't looking at her, but the faintest curve of his lips told her everything.
The next class was Literature with Mr. Gooslin, a tall man with spectacles slipping down his nose and ink stains on his fingers. He loved imagination, loathed laziness, and treated stories like lifeblood. He clapped his hands, the chalk dust scattering like smoke.
"For this week, you will each write a story. Original. Born from your own mind. It will be your project grade."
Groans erupted around the room, Ralph muttering under his breath, others already dreading the work. But Stacy's heart leapt; literature was her sanctuary, her gift. She was clumsy with numbers, hopeless in science, but here she soared. Meanwhile, Nyx's face revealed no irritation, only calm calculation. A week of writing stories was not what he intended to waste his mind on. He had other plans, sharper and far more important.
At lunch, while the cafeteria buzzed with noise, Stacy sat alone with her tray, doodling absentmindedly on the margins of her notebook. Then Nyx slid into the seat beside her. The world froze. For Stacy, it was as if time bent—romantic music swelled in her head, sunlight seemed to fall only on his dark hair, making it shimmer in slow motion. Her breath caught as she stared at him, wide-eyed, her cheeks burning. She thought she might faint if he spoke her name.
Nyx snapped his fingers once, sharply, pulling her from her trance. His voice was low, deliberate, but softer than usual.
"Hey, you—Stacy. I need your help. Please don't deny."
Stacy felt her world collapse and rebuild in an instant. He knew her name. He needed her. She blinked, her lips parting, her voice trembling with disbelief.
"Yes. Of course. Tell me."
Nyx leaned closer, his pale eyes catching hers with unnerving calm.
"Do my Literature project. Write the story. I have no time for it."
Stacy's heart fluttered with equal parts joy and disbelief. She didn't even hesitate.
"Yes," she whispered, then louder, "Yes, I'll do it."
He nodded once, satisfied, and rose from the table, leaving Stacy in a daze. Her food remained untouched, her hands shook, her lips curved into a smile she couldn't hide. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream. Her imagination painted slow-motion scenes of them together, his hair always catching invisible wind, her heart always skipping beats. She was lost in her own world, intoxicated by the simplest exchange.
Night fell over Green Walls with its usual quiet, the snow reflecting pale light from the moon. In the Grey household, Bob returned to his chores, Joey still absent from town. In the Gald home, Nyx sat at his desk, the book resting beside him like a patient predator, its leather cover gleaming faintly in candlelight. His long fingers tapped against the table, his green eyes fixed on the book but unreadable. He wasn't thinking of literature, nor of Stacy, nor of the world around him. He was waiting—for Joey, for the evening, for the inevitable moment the full moon would arrive.
And far away, the book shivered—its cover rising slightly, as if it were breathing. A single page flipped open on its own, faint symbols glowing, pulsing with a rhythm that seemed almost alive.