The morning air was soft and gray, the kind that made the sky feel too big for the ground. Ian sat on the porch rail of the schoolhouse with one boot unlaced, watching his breath fog in the stillness. Somewhere in the back of his head, Cera's voice echoed:
"Why are you always with her?"
He shook it off. He wasn't in the mood for ghosts.
"IAN!"
He looked up. Cala was crouched in the dirt near the edge of the yard, her satchel tossed behind her, sleeves pushed to her elbows, knees already smeared with damp dust.
"There's a pattern," she said, pointing at a cluster of scattered pebbles. "I think the ground's trying to talk."
Ian sighed. "You're gonna get your skirt dirty."
"It's already dirty. Come look!"
He walked over slowly, one boot still unlaced.
Cala pointed again, more urgently. "See how they make a swirl? Like a secret tunnel? And there's this little guy—" She gestured beside the rocks where a pale worm was slowly wriggling across the dirt. "I think he made it."
Ian crouched beside her, frowning at the pebbles. They looked random. Clumped and uneven. Just the kind of thing that happened when it rained.
"I don't see it."
"You never see it," Cala said, not accusing, just disappointed. She leaned in closer to the worm. "Did you make this, Mr. Worm?"
The worm didn't respond.
"We're gonna be late," Ian said.
"Then we better run," she said, popping to her feet. She held out her hand. He took it. Like always.
They ran together across the yard.
By midday the sun was out, warm but weak. The courtyard behind the schoolhouse smelled like dry grass and rusted metal. Ian leaned against the wall, chewing half-heartedly on a crust of bread while Cala laid out her lunch beside him like it was a feast.
"Behold," she said dramatically, "the kingdom of lunch."
She unwrapped a cloth: two smashed rolls, a crumpled corner of fruit leather, and five raisins stuck to the inside of the fabric.
Ian raised an eyebrow. "Your majesty is generous."
Cala picked off the fruit leather and held it out to him. "Here. This one's the best part. It got flattened by my math book, so the flavor is super condensed."
Ian took it, hesitating for just a second too long. One of the younger girls from another class—Lita—was walking past behind them. She paused, watching as Ian bit into the fruit and made a face.
"Tastes like punishment," he muttered.
"Means it's working," Cala said. "Medicine's never supposed to taste good."
Lita blinked once, then kept walking.
Cala didn't notice. She was dividing up the raisins into piles like they were coins.
"One for me. One for you. One for Leor. And two for trade."
She passed him one of the raisins.
Down in the main yard, Tomas was tossing a pebble between his hands, talking with Ellion. Cala watched them for a moment.
"He used to play with Leor too," she said. "Now he plays like he never knew him."
Ian didn't respond. The raisin sat in his hand.
But he took it anyway.
The afternoon was long. The teacher's voice slipped into a slow chant somewhere between reading and sleep. A breeze drifted through the open window and played with the corner of Ian's notebook.
Cala slid him a folded scrap of parchment. It had clearly been torn from the back of her assignment.
OPERATION: MAKE IAN SMILE
Below it: a drawing of herself and Leor wearing mismatched cloaks, standing on a crate marked "laugh or else," while Ian sat cross-armed with storm clouds above his head. A very small sun was trying to peek through the cloud.
Ian turned it over and added a scribble of Cala slipping off the crate mid-performance, her cloak tangled around her head. He labeled it, "Encore pending injury."
Cala grinned.
The girl beside Ian—Adelyn—glanced over just in time to catch the exchange. Then quickly turned back to her work.
Cala didn't notice. She was already drawing again.
After dismissal, most of the class filed out quickly, eager to head down the hill before the evening chill set in. Ian and Cala lingered. She said she left something in the back room. He followed without thinking.
The storage room was dim, lit only by the low sun through the narrow window. Shelves lined the walls with bundled parchment, jars of dried ink, spare slates, and forgotten school projects. Cala dug through a crate in the corner while Ian leaned against the doorframe.
"You actually leave something back here?" he asked.
"Mm-hm." She sounded distracted. "Maybe. I don't know. I just wanted to check."
He didn't press. He could tell something was off.
She stood up slowly, holding an old drawing she'd made weeks ago. It was wrinkled, the colors faded from the cold.
"I thought I threw this away," she said.
She passed it to Ian. The figure in the center had a halo drawn above his head — crooked, but purposeful.
"Do you think this still looks like him?" she asked.
Ian looked at it, then at her. Her face was unreadable. The drawing in his hands felt too fragile to answer wrong.
"I don't know," he said.
Cala nodded like she expected that. "Me neither."
She took it back and folded it slowly, hands trembling just a little.
"I can't remember if I made this before or after they told me he was gone," she murmured. Her fingers curled tight around the paper. "I think I forgot the order. I don't know if I remember his voice anymore."
Her lip trembled. She blinked quickly. Sniffled. Then let out a sudden, hiccupped breath like she'd been holding it all day.
"What if I forget all of it?" she said. "What if that's what they want? What if I already—"
Her words broke off. She pressed her fists to her eyes, then let out a sharp sob.
Ian startled. "Cala—"
"I don't want to forget!" she cried, louder now, voice cracking hard in the small room. "It's not fair—why does everyone else get to forget and I don't—why does it hurt like this?"
She was shaking now, shoulders tight, tears falling freely.
Ian didn't think. He stepped forward and pulled her close. She pressed into him without hesitation, burying her face in his coat. Her sobs were loud, raw, the kind that sounded like something breaking.
He held her tight. His hand rested on her back, steady and slow.
"I'll remember for both of us," he said. "Okay?"
From the hallway, faint footsteps echoed past the door.
Two students—Nyriel and Ophan—walked by without pausing. Neither said anything.
When the footsteps faded, Cala pulled back slowly. Her face was red, her cheeks wet.
"You're not allowed to be sad for a week," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
She poked his chest. "Neither of us. That's the rule."
He held out his pinky.
She linked it with hers. "Sworn."
That evening, before they split paths at the hill, Cala pulled Ian aside. The sky was bruised pink, and the last rays of sun lit the schoolhouse roof.
"I made something," she said. "It's dumb. Don't laugh."
She opened her satchel and pulled out a folded scrap of linen, then unwrapped it to reveal a smooth river stone. Its surface was scratched faintly with lines — a smiley face, crudely etched with a nail or knife tip. Around the edge, in shaky letters, it said: 'DON'T BE BORING.'
"Wear it," she said.
Ian blinked. "How the hell am I supposed to wear a rock?"
"Wear, carry, same thing," she said, with a shrug. "Just keep it on you. It's a protection charm. Against being boring."
He rolled his eyes. "Let me guess — next week you're giving me a doll that cries when I talk too much?"
"Already made one. It explodes."
He snorted.
Just then, from up the path, a voice called down: "What're you two doing all the way back here?"
Azrel was standing a little ways off, arms folded, his posture casual — but his eyes moved between them too carefully.
Ian stepped slightly forward, still holding the stone. "Just walking her home."
Azrel's gaze dropped to Ian's hand. "What's that?"
Ian held it up between two fingers. "A rock."
Cala added, "An extremely powerful rock."
Azrel didn't laugh. Just gave a small nod. "Right. Don't dawdle too long."
He turned and headed back up the path.
They watched him go in silence.
Ian turned the stone over again. The edges were warm now, just barely.
"It's just a rock," he muttered.
But he didn't throw it away.
Then Cala whispered, "You think he's ever smiled in his life?"
"Not without consequences."
She giggled, and the spell broke.
They parted soon after. Cala disappeared down the hill, and Ian stayed a moment longer, thumbing the edges of the stone, its weight small but strange in his coat pocket.