The rain didn't fall, it bled.
Thick lines rolled down the car window, turning the outside world into a blur of green trees and gray sky. It looked like a watercolor painting left out too long in the storm.
Sarah Vance leaned her head against the cold glass. Her breath made a foggy patch on the window, but she didn't move. The quiet hum of the car engine vibrated through her bones. It should have been a calm sound, but it felt like something darker like something was winding up inside her, slowly tightening.
She didn't know how long they'd been driving. Minutes? Hours? Time felt strange. Blank. The road behind them was already forgotten, eaten up by silence. She couldn't remember the last town, the last sign, or the moment the city disappeared behind them. All she remembered was the leaving.
But not the place.
She had left a part of herself behind, something she could never get back. And now there was only that quiet ache in her chest, like something had been removed and the hole it left behind refused to close.
Her hands rested in her lap, palms up and still, almost like she was waiting for something to be given to her or taken away.
The man driving didn't speak.
His face stayed in shadow, the shape of his head barely visible against the gray wash of the sky. He wasn't there to talk. He was there to deliver her, like a letter without a return address.
The windshield wipers moved in slow, steady beats. That sound filled the silence, a dry, rhythmic scrape against wet glass. It felt like a clock counting down to something, but she didn't know what.
Each time the blades cleared the glass, she saw the same thing: trees, endless, black trees. Their bare branches reached up like they were trying to claw the sky open.
This place didn't remember the sun.
"We're almost there," the driver said.
His voice was flat, no warmth, no concern. Just a fact being stated, like the time of day or the temperature outside.
Sarah didn't respond.
She reached out and drew a small line in the fog on her window with her finger. The condensation clung to her skin. It felt real in a way most things didn't anymore.
Then she saw them.
The gates.
Tall and twisted, made of black iron shaped into sharp, curling thorns. Rain clung to them, gleaming in the dull light like wet bone. They creaked open as the car approached, slow and reluctant. The sound of metal grinding made her teeth hurt.
The car rolled forward onto a gravel path, the tires crunching loudly under them. That sound was sharp and sudden against the soft tap of the rain, like glass breaking underfoot.
They started to climb uphill, and the trees thinned.
Then the academy came into view.
Redwood Academy.
It didn't sit on the hill.
It ruled it.
The building looked ancient, Massive. Like it had been carved from the mountain itself.
Towers rose into the clouds like broken fingers, and hundreds of windows stared out at the storm, dark, cold, watching.
The whole structure seemed to lean forward, waiting, hungry.
Sarah felt something shift in her chest.
Not fear exactly.
Not yet.
But the shape of it.
The car slowed to a stop in front of a wide, towering oak door. It looked like something out of an old book, dark wood, black iron bolts, heavy enough to hold back war. The air outside the window felt thick, even from inside. It was the kind of silence that wasn't really silence at all. It pressed on the ears, heavy and strange.
"We're here, Miss Vance," the driver said, still not looking at her. His job was done.
He didn't need to look.
The building was already watching.
Sarah's fingers curled around the leather handle of her violin case. The weight of it grounded her, familiar, solid. It was the only thing she'd brought that still felt like it belonged to her.
She breathed in slowly, but the air in the car felt stale, like it had already been used up.
Then the door opened.
A woman stood in the entrance.
Tall.
Pale.
Hair pulled back so tightly it stretched her features. Her mouth held a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was more of a warning than a welcome.
"Sarah Vance," she said. "Welcome to Redwood Academy."
And just like that, the rain stopped.
The sound vanished.
No drumming on the roof, no wind, no wipers. Just a pause in the world so complete it made her ears ring.
Sarah's heart beat louder than anything else.
And in that stillness, she knew.
This wasn't a beginning.
It was an arrival.
She reached for the door handle, it was cold against her fingers. The moment she stepped out, the air changed. It was colder than she expected. It smelled like wet stone, pine, and something sharp. Something metallic, almost like blood, but not quite.
The gravel shifted under her shoes as she stood. She didn't look back.
The car drove off without a sound. Its red lights vanished into the mist behind her like it had never existed. Like none of it had.
She only looked ahead.
At the woman.
At the door.
At the place she'd spend the rest of the year.
She had read the welcome pamphlet, she had seen the old photos, the classical facade, the grand halls. But this wasn't what it looked like on paper.
This was a mouth.
And she was already inside it.
The woman stepped aside, allowing her in.
The entrance hall beyond the door was dimly lit, all high ceilings and shadows. A soft light from a chandelier above didn't reach the corners, the floor was stone. The air smelled faintly of dust and old varnish.
Sarah stepped in.
The door shut behind her with a deep, final sound.
"Your things have already been sent to your room," the woman said, turning briskly. Her heels clicked sharply on the stone. "You'll be given a schedule, a map, and a mentor. Orientation is at dawn tomorrow. For now, rest."
Sarah followed without a word, the violin case still clutched in her hand.
They walked through long hallways lined with dark portraits. The faces on the walls didn't feel like paintings. They felt like memories trapped in frames. Eyes that followed her.
Everything here was beautiful but in the way that graveyards were beautiful.
Clean, cold, measured.
And full of things that shouldn't be forgotten.
When they reached her door, the woman paused.
"You'll find Redwood runs on discipline," she said, her voice sharper now. "Music here is not a hobby. It's survival."
Then she was gone.
Sarah stood alone.
She opened the door. The room was simple: a bed, a desk, a dresser. Her suitcase sat on the floor by the wall. Everything else was still and waiting.
She walked over to the bed and sat down.
The silence here was heavier than in the car. More personal. It wrapped around her, close and quiet, like it was trying to learn her shape.
Sarah placed the violin case beside her on the bed.
Then she lay back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
She was here.
And something told her, something quiet, small, and certain that the hardest part hadn't started yet.