The rain had been falling since morning. A slow, steady drizzle that blurred the edges of everything. Water ran in the crooked lines down the bus shelter glass, turning the street into a smudged water colour. Noel Clark leaned against the cold metal bench, hood pulled low. She didn't mind the rain. It made the world quieter.
School was supposed to be "better" now. That's what everyone said. Time heals. Things get easier. But everyday still felt heavy, as if building itself remembered.
This week was worse.
Two days ago, Ava Grant- cheer captain, honour student, the kind of girl everyone noticed- had been found dead in the woods behind town. No one knew what happened. The official statement was still "under investigation", but that hadn't stopped rumours. Suicide? Accident? Murder?
Noel hadn't been close to ava, but she couldn't shake the connection. Months prior, her sister killed herself. And Noel still wasn't convinced that happened. Now ava was gone too. Two girls, both from the same school, both under circumstances that didn't feel right.
Inside the building, the air buzzed with hushed conversations, Avas name, murmurs between students, huddled in corners and leaning against lockers. Noel kept her head down, slipping through the crowd until she reached the quieter wing near the end of the hall.
That's where Sophia's old locker still stood, the taped over name-plate, the dent in the side from a slammed door. Noel usually kept her eyes straight ahead when she passes it. But today something made her stop.
A strip of yellow paper was wedged between the vents.
It wasn't her locker. Not anymore. But something about it made her hand move before she could think. She looked down both ends of the hallway . No one was there. She slid the note free.
It was folded twice, the paper soft from handling. When she opened it, her stomach dropped.
"She was first, Your next."
Noel stared at the words, until her vision blurred.
A voice behind her startled her out of it. "Hey Noel, you ok?"
She spun around to see Mr Samuel Greaves, the school therapist, standing a few steps away. His umbrella dripped water into the tile he had an expression of worry on his face. He probably was wondering what was wrong. "Fine" she said to quickly shoving the paper in her pocket.
"You look pale", he said gently, not pressing "if you need to talk... you know where my office is." His tone was warm, the way It always was. As though whatever she said to him would be safe.
She nodded, muttered something about class, and slipped pass him. But the words in her pocket felt heavier than every step