The image of Julian in the chapel stayed with Sarah all the way back to her dorm.
It didn't fade when she turned corners or climbed the stairs.
It followed her, quiet and gray, like a shadow that never touched the ground.
His stillness had been different from the strange things she had seen before, the breathing walls, the shrouded mirror.
Those had been unnatural, the kind of horror you could tell yourself wasn't real if you tried hard enough.
But Julian… he had been human, solid and hurt in ways that didn't vanish when the lights came on.
That was worse.
The academy's tricks, the whispers, the shifting halls were meant to frighten, but they felt small compared to the weight in his eyes.
She was starting to understand something ugly, the true monsters here weren't just the ones that lived in the dark.
Some of them walked in daylight, leaving scars you could see in a person's silence.
By the time she reached her room, her chest felt tight. She needed to breathe, to ground herself in something that was hers. Something from before.
Music used to be that place for her.
Before Blackwood.
Before the blood on her sheets.
Before the strange static in her ears.
But the pianos here didn't feel like instruments anymore.
They felt wrong, like they had teeth hidden in their keys. When she touched them, it was like pressing her hands against skin that wasn't alive. The sounds they made seemed to carry pain she didn't own, notes bent under the weight of someone else's suffering.
Her violin was still in its case, tucked under her bed.
She hadn't been able to open it.
It felt like a coffin like if she touched it now, something inside her might splinter for good.
So she went searching.
Not for music, but for memory.
Her feet carried her deeper into the music wing, into a corridor she had never noticed before.
The air here was cooler, and dust hung in the shafts of light from narrow windows. She stopped in front of a door she didn't recognize.
Inside was a small, forgotten practice room.
The smell hit her first, old paper, and something faintly sour, like water that had been sitting too long.
A single upright piano stood against the wall. Its wood was scratched and dulled with age, and the yellowed keys made her think of old teeth.
No one had been here for a long time.
That made it feel safe.
She ran her fingers over the piles of sheet music stacked on a shelf. The paper crumbled faintly under her touch.
Most of it was unfamiliar, pieces written by students whose names meant nothing now.
Then she saw it.
A narrow cabinet stood in the far corner, its dark wood nearly black in the dim light. The door was locked.
She didn't even think about why she wanted to open it. She just looked around, found a stray tuning fork on the piano, and pressed it into the keyhole.
It scraped and bent as she twisted, the old lock groaning in protest.
Then crack.
The door swung open with a long, squealing sound, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
She coughed, stepping back as the smell of old wood and time rushed out.
Inside, among stacks of torn theory books and broken metronomes, was a small wooden box.
It was made of dark mahogany, the surface scratched but still holding the ghost of its old shine.
Delicate carvings of vines and thorns curled around its sides. On the lid, a silver ballerina was frozen mid-pirouette, her tiny head bowed, her once-bright surface tarnished dark.
A music box.
Sarah picked it up.
It was heavier than she expected, the wood cool and solid in her hands. She turned it over, searching for a name or a date.
There was nothing, just a small brass key fixed to the bottom.
Her fingers hesitated.
It felt… wrong.
Like something locked away for a reason.
But the pull was stronger than her caution.
She wound the key.
The first few turns were stiff, reluctant, then it loosened. She set the box down on the piano bench and slowly lifted the lid.
The song began.
A lullaby, soft, simple, gentle.
The tinny notes fell into the dusty air like drops of water, each one light and clear.
Her breath caught.
She knew this.
Not the way you remember a song you've practiced; no, this was deeper.
Like the tune had been sewn into her bones.
She could almost hear a voice humming it, warm, close, the way a mother might sing to a child before sleep.
She didn't remember her mother's face, but for a moment, she felt the memory of being held.
But then… the song faltered.
A single note dragged, held too long, before the melody stumbled forward again.
Then it began to rush, the notes tumbling over each other like they were trying to escape.
And one of the harmony notes was wrong, just slightly flat but enough to turn the lullaby sour.
It felt like listening to a memory rot.
Her stomach twisted.
The warmth drained from her chest, leaving something cold and tight.
The song wasn't just broken, it was sick.
It wasn't trying to comfort.
It was remembering something terrible.
She slammed the lid shut, cutting the tune off mid-note. The silence that followed felt heavy, almost wet, pressing in on her.
She picked up the box with shaking hands and left the room. She didn't know why she took it, maybe she thought she could fix it. Or maybe she knew, deep down, that it was a piece of whatever was wrong here.
When she reached her dorm, her door was already open.
Sera stood inside, near the window, her thin shoulders tense.
The last light of the day framed her in orange and gold, but she didn't move.
She flinched when Sarah stepped inside.
"What's that?" Sera asked softly.
Her eyes didn't leave the box.
"I found it," Sarah said, her voice thin. "In one of the old practice rooms."
She set the box on her desk.
The silver ballerina caught the fading light, her faceless head glinting faintly. Sarah hesitated, then opened it again.
The lullaby spilled into the room.
Sera gasped, sharp and small but it wasn't just surprise. Her entire face drained of color.
"No," she whispered, backing away.
"You know it?" Sarah's voice shook.
Sera didn't answer.
She moved fast, too fast for her usual quiet self. She lunged across the room, grabbing the music box with claw-like hands.
"Sera—"
"He listens!" Sera screamed, her voice breaking.
"He uses it! Make it stop!"
She ran to the window, fumbling with the latch. Cold night air burst into the room.
Without looking back, she hurled the box into the darkness.
They both heard it hit the gravel far below, one last warped jangle of notes before silence swallowed it.
Sera slid down the wall, curling into herself.
Her knees came up to her chest, her arms locking around them. She rocked slightly, her breath ragged.
"Don't let him hear it," she whispered over and over.
"Don't let him know you found it. Don't let him hear you."
Sarah stood frozen by the open window, her breath catching in the cold air.
The wind brushed past her face, carrying the smell of damp earth and something faintly metallic from the gravel below.
The last faint echo of that warped lullaby seemed to cling to the night, stretching into the silence like a thread that refused to break.
She turned toward Sera. Her roommate was still on the floor, her small frame trembling as if the music had left splinters under her skin.
She rocked forward and back, eyes shut tight, whispering the same words like a prayer.
Sarah's gaze drifted to the empty space on the desk where the box had been.
She could still feel it there, the way you still feel the shape of something after it's gone, like a shadow burned into your vision.
It wasn't just an object.
It wasn't just a song.
It was bait.
And whoever had left it wasn't done listening.
The thought slid cold into her chest, lodging deep.
Somewhere in this academy, someone had been winding that melody over and over, waiting for someone to hear it.
Waiting for the right ears.
And now… they would know it had been heard.
Sarah stepped back from the window and closed it, the latch clicking into place like a lock sealing a cell.
But she couldn't lock out the feeling that the music was still playing, quietly, somewhere through the halls of Blackwood, carrying her name with it.