The feeling from the practice room hadn't left her.
Sarah still felt it on her hands, a strange, sticky wrongness that clung to her skin like oil.
She had washed them twice since returning, scrubbing until they were red and raw, but it didn't help. The sensation wasn't physical anymore.
It was in her head, under her skin, settled deep in her chest like a weight. She sat on the edge of her bed, hands clenched in her lap.
The piano had betrayed her. It had let her in, let her feel something beautiful for a moment and then it had turned on her.
The keys had gone warm, soft, almost alive beneath her fingers. Like flesh, like something breathing.
It felt like the school had punished her for trying to feel joy.
She had dared to reach for something light, something real, and it had taken that away. Blackwood hadn't just touched her music. It had crawled inside it. It had ruined the one place she thought was safe.
The silence in the room wasn't quiet anymore.
It was alive.
Thick.
Heavy.
It pressed down on her shoulders and sat in her lungs. It filled every corner, every crack.
The lamp on her desk cast a soft, dull light, but it didn't help. It only made the shadows seem deeper. The mirror on the wall, still covered with a thick cloth, seemed to pull in the light, its shrouded surface dark and watching.
Like it was waiting.
Julian's warning echoed in her head.
Mr. Finch's smile still clung to her skin like something greasy.
The way the walls had seemed to breathe earlier in the practice room… all of it was starting to feel connected, like pieces of something she didn't yet understand.
And she wasn't even alone.
Her roommate was here.
But Sera might as well have been a ghost.
She'd moved in a few days after Sarah had arrived.
A late assignment.
No one had announced her; she had just appeared, quiet as a shadow. She hardly spoke,she hardly made a sound. Even now, Sarah barely knew what her voice sounded like.
Sera was small and pale, with hair that looked like washed-out ash. Her eyes were strange too not quite gray, not quite blue, like the sky before a storm. She never made eye contact.
When they passed each other in the room or stood side-by-side brushing their teeth, Sera would always stare just past Sarah's shoulder. As if watching something that wasn't there. Or maybe something Sarah couldn't see.
She owned almost nothing. Just a few neatly folded outfits in the wardrobe, one plain book on her nightstand and a silver locket that never left her neck.
She was like a sketch of a person, faint, unfinished and always on the edge of disappearing.
They barely talked.
A "hi" here.
A nod there.
That was it.
But tonight, after what happened in the practice room, the quiet between them felt unbearable. Sarah couldn't sit in it anymore. Not after what she felt in those keys. Not after what she saw in the piano's shadow.
She needed to hear another voice. She needed to know she wasn't imagining all of this.
The door creaked open.
Sarah's body tensed.
Sera stepped in from the dark hallway. She didn't turn on the main light. She never did. The room stayed lit only by the warm glow of Sarah's lamp, which now felt much smaller than it had before.
Sera crossed the room like a ghost, her steps silent. She moved to her bed and stood still for a moment, her back to Sarah, one hand hovering over her blanket like she'd forgotten what to do next.
Sarah took a breath. Her throat felt dry. "Sera?" she said, softly.
Sera didn't move.
Her hand stayed frozen above the bed.
"It's cold in here tonight," Sarah added, her voice thin, shaky. It wasn't the best thing to say, but it was something. Something normal.
Sera gave the smallest nod. Almost nothing.
The silence stretched again, longer this time. Sarah felt her heart start to race. Her ears buzzed with her own pulse. The room felt like it was closing in.
She glanced around.
The cracked ceiling, the peeling wallpaper, the thick shadows that clung to the corners like mold.
And then she saw them again, the scratches on the wall, right beside her bed; deep ones, long.
She'd noticed them before but had ignored them, thinking they were just old damage.
Now… they didn't feel like that.
They felt desperate.
"Have you… seen these?" Sarah asked quietly. "The marks on the wall."
Sera's body twitched, like the words had hit her. She turned her head just slightly. Her eyes flicked toward the wall then away.
Fast.
Too fast.
Her face tightened. Her fingers gripped the bedpost. Her knuckles went white.
"It's an old building," Sera said. Her voice was dry. Fragile like dead leaves.
"I know," Sarah said slowly. "But… this room. The Headmistress said the East Wing was closed for years. I was just wondering if something happened here. Before us."
That was the wrong thing to say.
Sera flinched.
Her shoulders hunched, and her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes darted to the door.
Then to the mirror.
Then back to the door again.
She looked like she wanted to run.
She didn't say anything. She didn't even blink.
Sarah froze.
She hadn't meant to scare her. "I'm sorry," she said quickly.
"I didn't mean to—"
"Don't." Sera's voice was sharp now. Not loud, but sharp. It sliced the air clean in two. She finally turned to look at Sarah, and her expression made the room spin.
She wasn't annoyed. She wasn't angry.
She was terrified.
"Don't ask," she said again, softer now. Her voice trembled. "Please."
The room held still.
Everything stopped, the pipes, the wind outside, even Sarah's thoughts.
Sera's eyes were wide.
Raw.
The look of someone who had seen too much and carried it in silence for too long. Her body shook. She wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to hold in whatever wanted to break free.
Sarah felt her own fear deepen. This wasn't just nerves or stress. This was real. This was deep. Whatever Sera was afraid of, it was still here.
Still watching.
Still listening.
Sera took a small, stiff step forward. Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely even sound.
"They don't like when you ask."
Sarah blinked. "Who?"
But Sera didn't answer.
She backed away.
Her expression shut down again, like a door slamming shut behind her eyes. The fear was still there, underneath but now hidden. Barely.
She crawled into bed and pulled the blanket over her head, covering every part of her.
It was like she was hiding.
Like she was waiting out a storm.
Sarah didn't speak again.
She just sat there.
Still.
Listening.
The silence wasn't empty now.
It was full of something, a warning.
A threat.
She stood up slowly and walked to her own bed. Her legs felt weak. She didn't change clothes. She just lay down on top of the covers, arms wrapped around her middle, like she was holding herself together.
She stared at the ceiling.
She could hear Sera's breathing.
Soft, rhythmic and too perfect.
Sera wasn't asleep.
Sarah knew it.
She was pretending.
She was waiting for morning, just like Sarah was now. And she was afraid that something or someone had heard them.
Sarah turned her head.
Her eyes landed on the wall beside her bed, where the scratches were. Just below them, she noticed something she'd never seen before.
One of the floorboards, right by the wall, wasn't flat. The edge was slightly raised plus it was barely noticeable. But it wasn't flush like the others.
It was loose.
That small, broken line in the floor felt louder than any sound. Like a scream buried under the silence.
And for the first time since arriving, Sarah realized the truth.
This wasn't just a haunted building.
It was a place built on rules.
Rules no one said aloud.
And the first one was simple.
Don't ask.
Don't speak.
Pretend.
Like Sera was doing now.
Like Sarah might have to do next.