Her Name on Stone

Lira couldn’t stop staring at the boy’s eyes.

They weren’t just familiar—they were hauntingly familiar. Like a word you can almost remember, stuck on the edge of your tongue.

He let go of her wrist.

"You should get to your room before curfew,” he said. “Thorn’s not the forgiving type."

“Wait—”

But he was already walking away.

She stood there a second longer, her heart stumbling.

D16.

Her name was printed neatly on the door: Lira Vale.

It still felt like a stranger’s name.

She pushed it open.

The dorm was immaculate. A candle flickered on the desk, lavender-scented. A silver comb lay parallel to a row of color-coded books. The bed near the window was perfectly made. The other bed—hers—looked untouched.

A girl sat at the desk, writing something in tight, elegant script. She didn’t turn.

Lira cleared her throat. “Cassia?”

The pen stopped.

“So you do remember something,” Cassia said softly.

“I… no. Just your name. Someone told me.”

Cassia rose.

She was beautiful in a statuesque way—precise, unshaken, like she'd been carved from ice. Her eyes scanned Lira's face as if trying to solve a riddle.

“You were gone for three days,” she said. “Or a year. Depends who you ask.”

“I don’t remember anything,” Lira said. “Not just what happened. Everything.”

Cassia’s face didn’t change. But her voice did.

“Good,” she said. “It’s easier that way.”

Lira blinked. “Why?”

Cassia moved toward her, each step measured.

“Because the girl you used to be—” she said, almost kindly, “—ruined more than just herself.”

---

Lira couldn’t sleep.

The air in the dorm felt wrong. Like the walls were listening.

Cassia was already asleep, turned toward the wall, her breath slow and controlled. The candle was still burning, almost out.

Lira slipped from bed and into her uniform jacket.

She didn’t know where she was going.

Only that she had to go.

---

The path behind the East Wing twisted like a scar through the garden. Ivy curled over rusted gates and half-buried stones. Fog coiled at her ankles, soft as breath.

Then she saw it.

A small clearing—

and in the middle, a crooked gravestone.

She moved closer, heart knocking against her ribs.

LIRA VALE

2008–2024

“She followed the silence. May she never return.”

Her breath caught. Her knees threatened to give way.

This was real.

She backed away—and stepped on something soft.

A bundle of dried roses. Blackened, as if burned. Tied with a velvet ribbon. There was a note tucked inside, parchment yellowed with age.

She opened it with shaking fingers.