The next morning, Clara wandered the hallways alone, Ethan trailing behind reluctantly.
The walls were lined with oil portraits of past headmasters and notable alumni. Their eyes didn't just follow her—they seemed to judge her.
One portrait, an elderly man with sharp cheekbones and a crooked cross, appeared to blink while she passed.
"Uh… maybe it's the sunlight," Ethan whispered nervously.
Clara tilted her head.
"No, sunlight doesn't make portraits twitch."
The portraits moved subtly, not all at once, but in quiet, deliberate increments. Smiles widened. Frowns deepened. One old nun's painted hands flexed as though she could grip the frame.
A voice, brittle and dry, hissed from the shadows:
"Curiosity dies slowly here, child."
Clara smiled faintly.
"I'll keep that in mind."
The portraits weren't just alive—they were learning. Watching. Waiting. Each step Clara and Ethan took left impressions in their gaze, almost as if the paintings remembered her.