The Boy Beneath the Stone

Lira barely slept.

The words on the note pulsed behind her eyelids like a bruise:

You should have stayed dead.

Some doors don’t open twice.

She couldn’t stop thinking about that second name carved beneath hers.

Eren Cai.

He was alive. She’d spoken to him. So why was he listed on her grave like they’d both been buried together?

The moment the clock struck five, she rose, dressed in silence, and slipped out of the room.

---

The Academy before dawn felt like a secret world.

The frost-laced courtyard was deserted, shadows still clinging to the stone like they hadn’t been told to leave yet.

She didn’t know exactly where to go, but instinct tugged her east, toward the old music wing—once a chapel, now a half-forgotten place where echoes went to sleep.

She circled to the side entrance.

Locked.

But a window near the back stood cracked open.

She hesitated only a second before climbing up.

---

The music room smelled of dust and faint varnish.

Pale morning light filtered through stained glass, washing the floor in reds and golds. An old grand piano sat in the center like a relic, its cover pulled halfway back.

Lira stepped quietly.

Eren stood by the piano, his back to her. His fingers hovered just above the keys—close, but not touching. Like he wasn’t playing music, but remembering it.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said without turning.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Because no one else would come looking.”

He turned then, eyes unreadable.

“Did you sleep?”

“No,” she said. “I found something.”

She held out the folded note.

Eren took it without a word. His eyes scanned the writing once, twice. His jaw tightened just barely.

“Where did you find it?”

“Behind East Wing,” she said. “Next to the grave.”

“Your grave,” he said.

She nodded. “It’s not just mine.”