The morning air bit the edges of Ivy Calen's cheeks as she stood across the street from Morley Prep, staring up at the tall gray stone like it might swallow her whole. Her fingers were buried deep in her sleeves, as always, knuckles pressing into the ends of her hoodie cuffs like that might keep her grounded. A few students passed her, brushing by with too-loud voices and polished shoes that clicked on the concrete. She didn't move. Not until she saw the crow.
It perched on the metal arch above the school gate—motionless, glossy, watching. Its head tilted toward her in a slow, deliberate angle that didn't feel like coincidence. Ivy stared back. For a breath too long.
Then the school bell rang.
Late.
Her chest tightened. Not just because she was behind now, but because the bell never rang late. Morley was many things—pretentious, polished, proud of its ancient bloodlines—but it was never late.
She crossed the street quickly, the wind tugging at her hood as the crow took flight with a heavy beat of wings. She caught the last of its shadow sliding across the doorframe as she pushed through the main entrance.
The glass shuddered under her palm.
Just for a second.
She caught her reflection in it—distorted slightly, delayed. Her face looked the same as always: pale from too many late nights, tired eyes beneath smudged mascara, a sharp jaw softened by how tightly she always bit the inside of her cheek. But her reflection didn't turn its head when she did.
It turned a moment later.
Ivy blinked. The reflection was normal again. She stepped inside.
The school smelled like polished wood and bleach. That was familiar. So was the tight, antiseptic air of control that hung like a curtain over every hallway.
She passed students, lockers, teachers murmuring names, and couldn't remember any of them. Couldn't tell if that was memory loss or just how invisible she'd made herself. Her locker was at the far end of the West Hall—tucked near a fire exit no one used.
She turned the dial—left, right, left again—and pulled it open. The door squeaked. And there, scratched faintly into the metal, right beneath the hook inside: a strange curved line, like a spiral coiled into a thorn. Ivy leaned in.
She didn't remember carving it.
But she knew it. Knew it the way you know a song you've never heard but somehow remember the words to.
She reached out, touched the edge of the symbol with her nail.
It was warm.
"Ms. Calen," a voice barked from down the hall.
She jumped and snapped her locker shut.
Mr. Larks stood with a clipboard under one arm and his usual irritated expression. "You're late again."
She mumbled something—an apology, maybe—and followed him to English.
They arrived as he was already starting roll call. Ivy slid into her seat by the window, second row from the back. The desk in front of her was empty. The one beside her belonged to a girl named Sienna who still wore lip gloss during midterms.
Mr. Larks cleared his throat, pen tapping. "We have a transfer joining us today. Arlo Vane. Don't scare him."
The class barely glanced up. A few murmured "hey" out of obligation.
Ivy's gaze drifted—she didn't mean to look, not directly. But her eyes found him.
He was tall. Not tall like sports-tall—tall like shadows were tall in doorways. His coat hung longer than the dress code allowed, but the teachers didn't stop him. His hair was dark, a little tousled like wind had touched it. And his face was calm, almost unnervingly blank. But his eyes—
They weren't blue. Not green. Something between smoke and silver.
He scanned the room.
And when his gaze passed hers, something in Ivy's chest twisted.
The lights flickered above them. The overhead projector blinked out for a second, then hummed back to life.
Her hand gripped her pen. Arlo didn't look startled. He looked... unsurprised.
And then, for just a flicker of a moment, he smiled.
Not at her. Not exactly.
At something inside her.
---
Fourth period passed in a blur of pencils scratching and the weight of a stare she couldn't prove was real. When the bell rang, she moved through the halls like a shadow—feet soft, eyes down. Gym came next. Her least favorite.
The sky had darkened, though the clock read only 11:42. Ivy jogged the laps quietly, letting the class pass her. She was always last. She preferred it that way.
The locker room was empty by the time she pushed through the door. Her sneakers scuffed tile. She peeled off her hoodie and stared down into her duffel, looking for her water bottle.
Then she looked up.
The mirror above the sinks was cracked at one corner. She didn't remember it being cracked.
Her reflection looked back at her.
Her hoodie. Her eyes. Her posture.
But not her.
The reflection stood straighter. Head tilted slightly higher. A small curl of a smile at one edge of the mouth—mischievous. Knowing.
Ivy didn't move.
Neither did the reflection.
Then it blinked.
Late.
She turned, heart in her throat.
The mirror snapped back to normal.
She pressed both palms to the edge of the sink, steadying herself. Her breath fogged the glass.
Then, as the fog cleared, a single word curled through her consciousness:
Mirelen.
Her name.
But not.
---
The sketchbook incident happened after lunch.
She didn't remember taking it out. But when Ms. Bray stopped by her desk, she picked it up with a strange expression—careful, like it might bite.
"Where did you get these symbols?" she asked.
Ivy blinked. "What symbols?"
Bray flipped it open. Pages and pages. Spirals. Lines. Runes that looked like ancient veins.
Ivy had drawn them.
But she didn't remember holding the pencil.
"Detention," Bray said, softer than expected. "Room 304. After school."
---
Room 304 was dark when Ivy arrived. She sat in the middle row, dropped her bag at her feet, and kept her eyes on the window.
Then the door opened again.
Arlo.
He didn't say anything. He took the seat beside her—closer than he needed to.
The clock ticked.
Twenty-seven minutes passed.
Then she heard paper sliding across the desk.
She looked down.
One torn piece. Neat, old-world handwriting.
> Do you remember the fire?
Her hand trembled as she held it.
She didn't.
But her skin felt burned.
---
The sun had just started sinking when she stepped out of Morley's front doors, the last student on the grounds.
The wind pulled gently at her sleeves. Her fingers clenched the strap of her bag. The pavement smelled like old rain.
She cut through the gravel path near the chain-link fence behind the field.
Six crows waited on the rail. Perfectly still.
One turned its head.
And in a voice like smoke, not heard but felt—
"Ivy Calen."
Her body froze.
She blinked.
The crows were gone.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Unknown number.
The message read:
"Welcome back, Mirelen."
---