Sixteen steps from the gate to the front door.
Sixteen years of silence pressed behind her eyes.
Lyra Hale counted every crack in the concrete as she walked, hood up, shoulders hunched against the fall wind clawing at her skin. The cold didn't bother her, not really. It was familiar. It lived in the walls of her uncle's crumbling house. It breathed through the broken windows and hissed through the vents like a promise.
The high school loomed like a beast—brick, iron, and glass. Cold eyes stared from its many windows. Inside, she imagined it whispered with the kind of laughter that tears people apart one slice at a time.
She tightened the straps of her worn backpack. It was all she had. That, and the clothes she'd bought from a secondhand store with the stolen twenty crumpled in her pocket two weeks ago. Her uncle hadn't noticed. He rarely did, unless he needed something to yell at or hit.
She inhaled. Held it. Let it go.
Her real parents had died in a car crash when she was six. She didn't remember much about them. Just the scent of lavender on her mother's scarf and the rough timbre of her father's laugh. Sometimes, when sleep was too far to reach, she let those sounds curl around her in the dark.
But then morning came. It always did. And with it, her uncle's shouting. His hand. His vodka breath.
A bell rank. Sharp, metallic.
First day.
Her file had said "transfer from out of state." No mention of bruises. No mention of nightmares or screams choked down at 3 a.m. Just the basics. Just enough to forget her.
The office lady didn't look up when Lyra entered, just handed her a schedule and mumbled something about locker numbers. Lyra stood there too long, unsure if she should thank her or just disappear. Eventually, she chose the latter.
She walked the halls like a ghost. Pale. Unseen.
Whispers followed her. The thrum of teenage curiosity—sharp-edged and cruel.
"She's weird."
"What's with her hair?"
"Look at her shoes."
"Probably poor."
"Where's she even from?"
She sat in the back of her first class. Algebra. The teacher barely glanced at her. A group of girls passed notes, giggling with eyes like knives. A boy flicked paper at her hoodie.
By lunch, her stomach was knotted and tight. She didn't have any money. She'd brought an apple, bruised and soft, tucked carefully in her jacket pocket. She sat under the stairwell and bit into it slowly. It tasted like dirt and memory.
She wondered, not for the first time, if anyone would care if she disappeared.
They didn't see her. Or worse—only saw enough to laugh.
Second period. History. She liked the quiet of it, the way the teacher talked like the world had once meant something. But the other students didn't care. Phones glowed under desks. Heads lolled back in boredom.
Except one.
He sat at the edge of the room. Alone. Hands folded. He didn't look bored. Or amused. Or anything at all.
He looked like stone carved into boy-shape. Dark hair like ink. Eyes too pale, too silver. He stared out the window, unmoving.
Something about him made her heart race—and not in a good way. In the way deer freeze when something ancient stares through the trees.
She looked away quickly. But something pulled her gaze back, like a string inside her chest.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, time tilted. Her breath hitched. His eyes… they weren't just silver. They were alive. Full of storm and hunger. But in them was something else, too. Recognition? Curiosity?
He didn't smile. But he saw her. He really saw her.
And that… that was almost worse than being invisible.
The moment shattered when someone behind her kicked her chair. She flinched.
"Oops," the boy behind her snorted. "Didn't see you there, ghost girl."
She stared at her desk. The boy in the back didn't move. But she could feel his eyes lingering.
The rest of the day faded into itself—one awkward silence to the next. Books dropped beside her with thuds, lockers slammed shut just inches from her head. Even the teachers treated her like a shadow.
By the time the final bell rang, she was shaking.
Outside, the clouds hung low and gray. Rain spit down in half-hearted drizzles. She pulled her hoodie up and walked the long mile home.
When she reached the porch, the door was already cracked open. That was never a good sign.
Inside, the air was heavy with cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey.
"Where the hell have you been?" her uncle barked from the couch.
"School," she whispered.
He stood. Wobbled. His hand twitched.
She turned. Too slow.
Pain bloomed against her cheek. She didn't cry. Not anymore.
"Ungrateful little rat," he muttered, collapsing back onto the stained cushions. "Should've stayed in that damn orphanage."
She climbed the stairs. Her room had no door. No lightbulb. She curled under the thin blanket and pressed her fingers to the bruised side of her face.
Somewhere, in the thick darkness, she thought of the boy in the back of the class. The way he looked at her like he could see something inside her she didn't know was there.
She hated how much that mattered.
Outside, thunder rolled.
And in her dreams She saw her parents. Although the faces were blurry, she saw them in the car. Then, like lightning, she was at the scene of an accident, because she herself was involved in it, but she survived. She woke up like that. She has been dreaming about the accident every night since she was 6 years old.