The corridor stretched out before her, bathed in muted morning light filtering through tall glass panes that shimmered with a soft golden hue. The stone floor echoed faintly under her steps, each sound swallowed by the emptiness of the academy halls. It was the weekend, which meant the usual restless tide of students was gone—scattered across the city, returning to their homes, leaving the sprawling academy quieter than usual. The dormitories were hushed, the lecture halls closed, and even the clamor of footsteps that normally thundered through these passages was reduced to a distant hum.
As she passed beneath the arched windows, Yuxin's eyes caught movement outside. The academy's garden lay in bloom, its hedges trimmed neatly, fountains spilling clear water into basins that sparkled beneath the sun. A small group of students lounged there, their voices light and full of laughter. Some leaned against the stone benches beneath the shade of trees, others sprawled across the grass, tossing crumbs of bread to sparrows fluttering at their feet. Their chatter rose in bursts of warmth—mock arguments, jokes, the sound of someone's laughter carrying across the still air like a bell.
Yuxin slowed her pace. Her gaze lingered on them, not with envy, but with a distant, hollow quiet. The way their faces lit up, the ease of their movements, the simple brightness of their togetherness—it all felt like a memory she had once lived, so long ago it now tasted foreign on her tongue. Her chest tightened, though her expression remained unreadable.
They look happy.
The thought flickered across her mind, thin and fragile. Yet almost as soon as it surfaced, another image pressed against it—unwanted, unbidden.
The grass, the benches, the sunlight—it all seemed to blur, replaced by fragments of another scene buried deep in her memory. The students' faces twisted, reshaped, until one of them became familiar. A girl. Small, lively, her features soft with recognition, her smile once bright. For a moment, Yuxin's eyes widened, the world pulling her backward through time.
But then she saw it: streaks of red blooming across that girl's skin, staining her clothes, dripping down her arms. The brightness of her face hollowed out, her lips trembling, her gaze fixed on Yuxin with raw accusation.
Only you lived.
The words weren't spoken aloud, yet they pressed into Yuxin's skull as if screamed from the very marrow of her bones.
Only you survived. The rest of us…
Her breath caught. For the briefest moment, she thought her feet had rooted to the spot. Her body went still, her arms limp at her sides, her eyes blank and fixed on the phantom before her. Around her, the academy's life carried on—the students outside laughed, one of them tossing their head back at a joke—but to her, the air thickened, and all she could see was that one face drenched in crimson, staring into her, through her.
Silence wrapped around her like iron chains. Her lips parted but no sound came, not a denial, not a whisper, nothing. She stood, motionless, a shadow among shadows.
Then, without a flicker of expression to betray the storm that had cracked open inside, Yuxin blinked once, forced her gaze away, and moved forward again. Her stride resumed its calm, detached rhythm, her footsteps steady on the stone floor. To anyone watching, she was the same as always—cold, aloof, unreadable.
But inside, the weight of the past still pressed sharp against her ribs, a scar that no passage of time could dull. And so she walked on, carrying silence like a second skin, haunted and unshaken, refusing to let the ghosts see her falter.
The cafeteria doors swung open with a hollow creak, spilling the faint aroma of food into the otherwise quiet corridor. Inside, the vast dining hall was sparsely filled, only a handful of students scattered across the rows of tables. Most were absorbed in quiet conversations, while others bent over books or trays, the clinking of cutlery echoing faintly through the open space. The absence of the usual weekend crowd made the place feel larger than it was, its emptiness heavy, stretching out like an abandoned stage.
Yuxin stepped forward, her boots clicking softly against the tiled floor. Her eyes wandered briefly across the room—taking in the quiet, the absence of familiar noise—before she moved toward the serving counter. The scent of warm food drifted up to her, steam clouding faintly against the glass, but her expression stayed flat, unreadable.
She scanned the trays, looking for the one thing that usually cut through the monotony of meals here: oatmeal porridge with honey. Sweet, soft, the closest thing to comfort food in a place like this. But today, the tray was missing. The usual silver bowl wasn't there, and her eyes searched once, twice, before she leaned closer and finally asked.
"Where's the oatmeal?"
The woman behind the counter—an older matronly figure with her sleeves rolled up and hair pinned beneath a scarf—looked up from ladling soup into a bowl. Her voice carried the practiced patience of someone who had answered a thousand such questions before.
"Out of stock for today. The delivery didn't come in. You'll have it again tomorrow."
The words fell dully into Yuxin's chest, more disappointing than she wanted to admit. She clicked her tongue softly, lowering her gaze. A small part of her had been looking forward to that familiar taste, the little ritual of it, and now it was gone.
The cafeteria lady, noticing her pause, added with faint reassurance,
"We've replaced it with corn soup today."
The sound of those words twisted something sharp inside her.
Corn soup.
Her chest constricted. For an instant, her breath hitched and the steam rising from the ladle warped into smoke in her mind. She saw firelight, blood smearing across wooden floors, the phantom faces from her nightmare pressing in again—children at the table, bowls of corn soup before them, their laughter cut short, their eyes hollowed with lifeless stares.
The word itself felt cursed, dragging her back into the choking grip of her memory.
Her fingers twitched slightly at her side, but her face betrayed nothing more than the faintest narrowing of her eyes. She didn't say a word, not to deny, not to protest. She simply reached out, her hand steady though her insides burned with unease, and took the bowl offered to her.
The steam curled upward, warm and almost sweet, but to her it carried the stench of dread. Yuxin held the tray, her gaze fixed on the golden surface of the soup, as if daring it to drag her further into the past.
"…Tch."
Her lips barely moved as the sound escaped, a sharp edge of irritation more toward herself than anything else. Then, turning without another glance, she carried the bowl to an empty table at the far corner of the cafeteria.
And there, with no other choice, she lowered herself into the seat, spoon in hand, and forced the first sip past her lips—knowing full well that every taste would bring back the nightmare she had tried to leave behind.
Yuxin sat in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, the vast empty space around her swallowing every faint clink of cutlery from the other scattered students. The bowl of corn soup sat steaming in front of her, its pale golden surface rippling gently as if mocking her hesitation. The scent of it rose, warm and harmless to anyone else, but to her it carried the metallic tang of memory.
Her eyes lingered on the bowl, unblinking, her face perfectly still—yet inside, something sharp twisted. Images she didn't invite pressed forward like blades through fog: a long wooden table, children's laughter, the crack of fire eating through walls, red spilling thick across the floor. The vision stabbed at her temples until a dull ache bloomed behind her eyes.
Her fingers curled around the spoon. The cold metal steadied her grip, though her pulse thrummed faster than she wanted to admit. Why now? Why does this dream still drag me back?
She drew in a quiet breath, jaw tightening. No. I should have buried it. I should have forgotten all of this. That part of me is supposed to stay locked away, sealed forever. I don't want it. I don't need it. Not anymore.
Her chest tightened as if the thought itself was a lie. She forced the spoon into the soup, stirring once, the golden surface breaking apart, then lifted it slowly to her lips.
The taste met her tongue, rich and smooth, faintly sweet. It should have been comforting. It should have been simple. But every mouthful carried the ghost of blood and smoke, of accusing eyes staring at her from across a table. Delicious and disgusting all at once, a contradiction she couldn't swallow without feeling her stomach churn.
Her brows furrowed slightly, though her expression never fully broke. She lowered her gaze, chewing on silence as much as the food itself.
The soup was good—she couldn't deny that—but it made her skin crawl, as though each bite pulled her deeper into the memory she had sworn never to face again.
Still, she kept eating, spoon after spoon, the quiet rhythm almost mechanical. Because to leave it unfinished, to let it sit there untouched, would be the same as admitting the memory had power over her. And Yuxin would rather choke on ghosts than allow that.
The sharp clang of a tray slamming against the wooden table broke Yuxin's fragile rhythm. Her spoon froze halfway to her lips, and her eyes flicked sideways, irritation sparking for just a breath before surprise took its place.
A girl stood there—tall, slender, her posture loose as if she couldn't care less about the world staring at her. Her expression, however, was flat as stone, her eyes lidded with that peculiar emptiness that wasn't quite boredom but wasn't life either. Without ceremony, she balanced her tray on one hand and spoke in a voice utterly devoid of inflection.
"Move. I'm sitting here."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement delivered like air passing through her lungs, stripped of any hint of politeness.
Yuxin's gaze lingered on her face, the faint tilt of recognition tugging at the back of her mind. She knew this girl—yes, she'd seen her before, heard her voice in lectures, glimpsed her sitting across the classroom. But her name, her presence, always seemed to dissolve the moment Yuxin turned away.
Before she could even ask, the girl lowered herself into the seat beside her and added with the same flat tone, "You forgot me again, didn't you?"
Yuxin arched a brow, saying nothing.
The girl sighed softly through her nose, propping her chin on her hand as if speaking drained more effort than she cared to give. "Erna. Erna Bernsnastle. Class president. We've been in the same class for two months now. Two months. And every time, you look at me like I'm some stranger you bumped into on the street."
Yuxin set her spoon down with a faint clink, her expression unreadable except for the slight downturn of her lips.
"…Your presence is so faint it's like you're not even there. No wonder I keep forgetting."
Erna turned her head just enough to look at her, one brow twitching upward. The rest of her face didn't change—still that detached, apathetic mask—but her words came edged with a dryness that nearly passed for annoyance.
"Wow. So it's my fault for existing too quietly? That's your excuse?"
Yuxin lifted her bowl, sipping her soup without a care, her eyes never leaving the table. "That's not an excuse. That's a fact."
For a moment, Erna just stared at her, lips pressed in a thin line, her quiet exhale betraying the faintest frustration. She didn't snap, didn't raise her voice, but the subtle tension in her jaw said enough.
"…You're unbelievable."
Her tone was still flat, still heavy with that careless monotony, yet the edge of her words betrayed her. She wasn't truly angry, but irritation curled beneath the surface, an ember smothered under her habitual indifference.
Yuxin only smirked faintly into her bowl, as if the exchange was more entertaining than the soup itself.
Erna sat without another word, fork cutting neatly into the flaky golden crust of the small pie she had placed on her tray. The sweet scent of baked pastry drifted faintly across the table, out of place amidst the bland aroma of corn soup and boiled vegetables that normally filled the cafeteria.
Yuxin's eyes narrowed slightly. That food didn't look like anything she'd seen on the counter. Tilting her head, she finally asked, voice low and dry.
"…That's not from the kitchen here. What are you eating?"
Erna chewed once, calmly, as though the question was just background noise, then answered in her usual flat monotone. "Fruit tart. I made it."
Yuxin blinked once, incredulous.
"You… made it? A noble girl, hands on dough? What happened, your maids go on strike or something?"
Erna speared another piece with her fork, not even glancing at Yuxin as she replied
"I dismissed them. If I'm going to be a noble worth anything, I need to be able to stand on my own. Cooking for myself is just one step."
The words were delivered so matter-of-factly that for a second, Yuxin simply stared. No trace of pride, no smugness—just plain, cold resolve.
"…Huh."
Yuxin leaned back, folding her arms, the corner of her lip twitching faintly. "That's… something, I guess. You're still weird."
Without changing expression, Erna lifted one of the small pies from her tray, set it neatly onto Yuxin's empty plate beside the soup, and pushed it toward her.
Yuxin frowned. "I didn't ask for that."
Erna finally turned her gaze on her, blank eyes heavy-lidded yet cutting in their bluntness.
"Consider it part of my training. Nobles are supposed to provide for those beneath them. Feeding you counts."
The words landed like a dull slap.
Yuxin froze, then let out a short, humorless laugh through her nose, setting her spoon down with a clink. Her tone came lazy, but the edge underneath was undeniable.
"…I'm not that poor. Don't get the idea I need your charity."
Erna shrugged once, utterly unbothered. "Didn't say you were poor. Just said you're beneath me. That's how hierarchy works." She went back to eating her tart, as if the matter was settled, every bite clean and mechanical.
Yuxin's brow twitched, irritation flashing across her eyes before she drowned it under her usual veil of indifference. She leaned forward, poking at the gifted tart with her fork, her voice carrying that dry venom that sounded almost like boredom.
"You're lucky I'm too tired to argue hierarchy with you. Otherwise, I'd make you choke on this lesson of yours."
Erna's lips curved the faintest fraction—something between a smirk and nothing at all—as she murmured, "Noted." And she continued eating, completely unfazed.
The quiet between them stretched long and heavy, punctuated only by the faint scrape of cutlery against plates and the muted hum of distant chatter from the few other students scattered across the cafeteria. Neither Yuxin nor Erna spoke. They ate in silence, one hiding her unease behind a blank mask, the other moving with mechanical detachment as though conversation was unnecessary.
The corn soup disappeared spoonful by reluctant spoonful until Yuxin's bowl sat empty, its surface streaked with pale remnants. Across from her, Erna's small tart was long gone, reduced to crumbs she brushed aside with a casual swipe of her fingers.
Without hesitation, Erna was the first to rise. She gathered her tray and plates in one clean motion, her posture as straight and effortless as ever. As she turned to leave, she paused only long enough to cast Yuxin a sidelong glance, her voice flat yet edged with something unusual—something that almost, almost resembled concern, though buried beneath her typical monotone.
"Your face. You've been glaring this whole time. Looks threatening. Next time, don't sit around looking like you're about to kill someone."
The words were delivered without emphasis, no softness, no obvious worry—but they struck with the quiet weight of observation. Erna had noticed her. From the very beginning. From the moment Yuxin had sat down, lost in memory, staring into her bowl as though it might consume her whole.
And then, without waiting for an answer, Erna shifted her tray against her hip and walked away, her steps measured, shoulders straight, vanishing into the cafeteria's exit like a shadow fading into the hall.
Yuxin blinked after her, momentarily thrown. Her brows knit faintly, not in anger, but in the puzzle Erna's words left behind. She sat frozen for a heartbeat longer, replaying the blunt remark in her head.
Threatening? …Was I really?
Her eyes drifted to the empty bowl before her, its steam long gone, leaving only the faint scent of corn clinging to the air. For once, she had no sharp retort, no dismissive scoff. Just a quiet, unsettled confusion gnawing at the back of her mind.
Finally, with a low exhale, she pushed her tray forward, rose from her seat, and carried her dishes to the counter.