Ten Years Later – Saint Briella's Academy Alumni Day
The school wasn't on any GPS map anymore.
Funny.
For all its grand speeches and marble crosses, Saint Briella's had become something of a secret.
Like it wanted to stay buried.
Still, my invitation arrived in a perfectly crisp white envelope.
No stamp. No return address. Just my name.
"Remi Adegoke – Class of 5."
No one calls us that anymore. Not officially.
But I knew what it meant.
The fifth girl. The final echo.
And still not free.
I returned with a reporter's badge and a recorder I didn't plan to use. The grounds were quiet. Too quiet for a celebration.
The new principal—someone who looked like she was barely older than me—gave a brief welcome speech, then disappeared behind the chapel doors.
Strange.
There were no students.
No other alumni.
No press.
Just me.
And the school.
Inside the chapel, things had changed.
New pews. New stained glass.
But the air?
Still cold. Still wrong.
A large mirror now stood where the altar used to be—sleek, modern, out of place. A plaque beneath it read:
"To the legacy of the Five."
My stomach twisted.
I stepped forward. My reflection shimmered in the glass.
Except—it wasn't me.
Not exactly.
My body.
But her eyes.
Eniola.
Suddenly, a girl stepped out from the side of the chapel. Long braids. Grey socks. Crest on her chest.
Zina.
Or what looked like her.
She was exactly the same as the day I left her in that chapel. Not older. Not changed.
She looked at me and whispered:
"You never made it out, Remi."
The mirror behind me began to hiss.
Glass cracked in a slow, deliberate spiral.
"You died in that room," she said softly, almost lovingly. "You never left."
The chapel began to melt away. Walls peeling. Candles shriveling into bone. Light folding in on itself.
Behind Zina, four other girls stepped forward from the shadows.
Bisi.
Yejide.
Amaka.
Tiwa.
They weren't alive.
But they weren't dead either.
Just like me.
I tried to scream but no sound came out.
The chapel door slammed shut.
And then… I remembered.
I never did come back.
My body was buried in an unmarked grave behind the school.
They told my aunt I ran away.
No one ever looked.
I've been here.
The whole time.
Talking through dreams. Whispering through mirrors. Calling for help that never came.
And now, Saint Briella's doesn't want a story.
It wants a new five.
Outside, a school bus pulled up.
Five fresh girls stepped off, giggling, holding orientation papers.
The bell rang—sharper, lower.
And in the chapel mirror, we began to plot.