It was a teacher who found the letter first. Tucked beneath a potted plant on the rooftop, wrapped in plastic, dry even though the world had been drenched in rain.
There was no name on it.
Just five words, written in careful, almost apologetic handwriting:
"Do not remember me, please."
The handwriting was unmistakable. She had graded enough of the girl's essays to know.
The school didn't make a public statement. No funeral was held on campus. Her family was long gone. Her company no longer existed. The world moved on, as it always does.
But in the weeks that followed, people whispered.
The student who ruled the halls like a queen. The one with silence in her smile and cruelty in her heels. The girl no one dared to touch.
Gone.
Violet's name came up once—briefly.
A boy in the back of the class remembered her.
"Didn't she used to sit with her?" he asked.
A shrug. "I think she worked for her family or something."
No one remembered more.
No one ever knew they were sisters.
One day, the janitor found a small notebook tucked into the back of a locker that had belonged to the girl.
It was barely filled.
On the first page, in ink faded by time and tears, there was only one line:
"I think I was loved, once. But I broke it."
He stared at it for a long time.
Then quietly, gently, he placed the notebook back where it was.
And closed the door.
The End