The auditorium of Bellmont School felt different that afternoon. The grand hall, usually bright and majestic, was now lit only by slivers of sunlight sneaking through the heavy curtains. In the center of the stage, Rossie stood with a clipboard in hand, trying to adjust the stage props that had been misaligned since rehearsal began.
"We'll start from Scene Two! Props team, please move the chairs to the center. Lighting, be ready on position A3," Rossie called out.
From behind the stage, Liam watched with a faint smile. The way Rossie took charge of the school's annual drama production was unlike what anyone—himself included—had expected. Not only was she smart, but she had a presence that made people listen—even those who typically dismissed new students.
But not everyone was impressed.
"Why is she the production lead? She just got here like, what, a week ago? As if there aren't better choices," Sienna whispered from the audience row.
Nichole sat beside her, silent. Her gaze lingered on Rossie, who was deep in discussion with the audio team. There was hesitation in Nichole's eyes, and a growing guilt tightening in her chest. She remembered how she had been the first to welcome Rossie, the scholarship girl, with a smile and a helping hand. But that was before social pressure from all sides started to weigh on her.
"Hey, are you even listening?" Sienna nudged Nichole's arm. "We can't let her run the whole thing. This year's drama has to be about the Royal Bellmont Family—not some weird story she pitched."
Nichole gave a small nod. "Yeah, I heard."
Sienna narrowed her eyes. "What's with you lately? Don't tell me you're starting to feel sorry for Rossie?"
Nichole quickly shook her head. "No. Just… this all feels a bit too forced."
Sienna scoffed. "Whatever. Focus on the costumes. You're in charge of the queen's gown."
⸻
Rehearsals wrapped an hour later. Rossie sank into the nearest chair, scanning her clipboard for revision notes she needed to pass on to the team that night. Sweat dotted her forehead, but a small smile played on her lips. This was one of those rare moments—where she felt recognized for her skills, not her scholarship status.
Liam approached with two bottles of water. "You're basically glowing—in sweat and success."
Rossie laughed. "Glowing? More like a fried snack under a heat lamp."
"You got the theatre kids to shut up and actually work. That's a huge win at Bellmont," Liam said, sitting beside her.
Before Rossie could reply, soft footsteps approached.
"Nichole?" she murmured, surprised to see the girl standing in front of her, looking hesitant.
"I just wanted to say sorry… about yesterday," Nichole said quietly. "I shouldn't have laughed when Sienna mocked you."
Rossie stared at her for a moment, her expression unreadable.
"I just… sometimes it's hard to go against her. She can really tear people down if you don't follow her lead," Nichole admitted.
Rossie looked down at the water bottle in her hands. She knew how brutal social pressure could be—sometimes worse than cruel words.
"I understand," she said finally. "But if you want to be part of this production team, we have to work professionally. No backstage drama—except the ones we rehearse."
Nichole gave a small smile. "Thanks. I'll help with the costumes. I've already got some ideas for the queen's gown."
After Nichole left, Liam leaned back and whispered, "You're really forgiving, huh."
Rossie shrugged. "I just don't want to waste energy on holding grudges."
⸻
That night, Rossie returned to the auditorium to retrieve a notebook she'd forgotten. The stage lights were off. The room was quiet and dark. But as she stepped backstage, a soft voice startled her.
"Rossie?" the voice came from the storage room.
Rossie frowned. "Ms. Arlena?"
The school's new drama teacher stood there, holding a folder. Her sleek black hair framed sharp eyes that studied Rossie as if searching for something deeper.
"You haven't gone home yet?" Ms. Arlena asked.
"I left something behind. What about you?"
Ms. Arlena gave a faint smile. "I was looking for an old script. Sometimes, the past can inspire… or warn."
Rossie swallowed. That sentence felt strange. Before she could ask more, Ms. Arlena opened a large drawer in the archive cabinet and pulled out a dusty script.
"I thought you might be interested in this," she said, handing over a script titled:
The Silent Bell – Bellmont School Drama 1999.
The author's name had been scratched out. Rossie flipped to the first page, her heart pounding. The same strange symbol she had found backstage—a cracked bell—was etched in the corner of the manuscript.
"Who wrote this, Ma'am?" Rossie asked.
Ms. Arlena glanced out the window, now shadowed by nightfall. "That's part of Bellmont's history… one not everyone wants to remember."
"Do you know—"
But before Rossie could finish, Ms. Arlena interrupted, "Keep the script. Read it carefully. But be careful, Rossie. Some stories… aren't just meant for the stage."
With that, Ms. Arlena walked away, leaving behind an eerie silence that lingered in the air.
Rossie sat on the stage floor. She turned page after page of the script, and the more she read, the more it felt like this wasn't just a drama.
It was a hidden message.
And somehow, she felt that her mother—the one who vanished without a trace—had once stood on this very stage.