The Last Girl Who Died Twice

The Girl in the Grave

The first thing Lira knew was cold.

Not the kind that makes you shiver, but the kind that sinks into your bones and makes them forget they were ever warm. Her fingers twitched against damp sheets, her throat raw like she’d been screaming underwater.

She opened her eyes to a ceiling she didn’t recognize.

Faded crown molding. A single light bulb swaying overhead. A scent of lavender—and something metallic underneath.

She sat up too fast.

Pain bloomed behind her eyes. The room spun. A clock ticked somewhere—too loud. Her heartbeat stumbled to match it.

“Miss Vale?”

A soft voice.

Lira turned. A woman in pale blue stood by the door, a clipboard pressed to her chest, eyes unreadable behind square-framed glasses. Her hair was the color of steel, pulled into a bun tight enough to hurt.

“You’re awake,” the woman said, not surprised. “That’s... good.”

Lira opened her mouth. “Where am I?”

“Valemont Academy.” The woman stepped forward. “Infirmary wing. I’m Nurse Kaede. You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

Three days?

“What happened?”

“You fell,” the nurse said, too smoothly. “A cliff edge behind the East Wing. Slipped. Hit your head.”

That didn’t sound right. She tried to remember falling—rocks, water, pain—but all she saw was—

—a white mask

—a hand around her wrist

—cold fingers letting go

Lira shook her head. “I don’t remember that.”

The nurse wrote something on the clipboard. “Memory loss is not uncommon in head trauma cases.”

“But—”

“You’re safe now.” The woman smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Your belongings were recovered. Uniform’s in the closet. Your roommate’s been informed.”

“Roommate?”

“Cassia Thorn. You’ve been living with her for six months.” She paused. “Surely you remember your best friend?”

Lira’s skin prickled.

She didn’t know a Cassia. She didn’t remember anything.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was the look on the nurse’s face—not surprise, not concern.

Pity.

---

Lira stood in front of the mirror in the corner, dressed in a navy blazer and pleated skirt that felt both familiar and wrong.

She touched her reflection.

Same dark eyes. Same sharp cheekbones. Same pale scar on the right collarbone.

She knew this face.

She just didn’t know whose it was.

---

The dorm hall stretched long and cold. Oil paintings lined the walls—headmasters with watchful eyes, students in charcoal-gray uniforms frozen in time.

As she walked, whispers bloomed behind her.

“That’s her…”

“Didn’t she—?”

“She’s not supposed to be—”

Lira kept walking. She turned a corner too quickly and collided with someone.

A hand caught her.

She looked up—and froze.

A boy with ink-black hair, eyes like overcast skies, and a quiet intensity that made her want to step back and forward at once.

“Careful,” he said, voice low. “You still look half-dead.”

Lira blinked. “Do I know you?”

Something passed over his face.

“No,” he said. “Not anymore.”