The rain started just after lunch, thin at first, then steady—like the sky was washing something off the roof of Saint Vincent Academy. The hallways smelled faintly of damp paper and old wood. Students moved quickly between classes, heads down, whispers passing like secret currents.
Leah's name was everywhere.
She ran away.
Her parents came for her.
The teachers are hiding something.
Amelia listened but said nothing. She still had Leah's name written at the corner of her notebook. Every time she looked at it, her chest tightened.
By the time classes ended, the rain had turned to mist. Harper had gone to choir practice, leaving Amelia alone with her thoughts. The air in the dorm felt thick, so she decided to go somewhere quiet—to think, maybe to prove to herself she wasn't losing her mind.
The library was nearly empty when she arrived. It was an old, echoing place with high windows and shelves that reached the ceiling. The scent of dust and paper wrapped around her like a memory.
She went to the archives section, where old student records were kept in labeled boxes. Most were too worn to read, the ink fading into yellowed pages. Still, she searched—looking for anything that might mention Room 308.
That was when she noticed him.
A boy sitting at a corner table, pale light falling over his dark hair. He looked about her age, maybe a year older. A book lay open in front of him, but his eyes weren't moving across the page—they were watching her.
Amelia hesitated, then said softly, "Hi."
He didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, low, almost careful. "You shouldn't be here."
She frowned. "It's a library."
He looked down again. "That's not what I meant."
Something in the way he said it made her heart tighten. "Do you know me?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But I know what you're looking for."
Amelia blinked. "Excuse me?"
The boy closed his book. The title was too faded to read. "Room 308," he said quietly.
The words hit her like a gust of cold air. "How do you—"
"Everyone who's new hears about it sooner or later," he interrupted. "Most people listen to the warnings. Some don't."
She stepped closer. "Warnings?"
He met her eyes for the first time. They were gray, almost silver, like storm clouds caught in light. "Stop looking," he said. "Forget you ever saw that number."
"Why?" she demanded. "People are disappearing! My friend—Leah—she—"
His jaw tightened. "Leah Morgan?"
"Yes. Do you know what happened to her?"
He hesitated, then stood. His movements were quiet, deliberate, like someone used to walking on fragile ground.
"Don't ask about her," he said softly. "Or anyone else who went missing. The school has ways of making things disappear."
Amelia stared at him. "You sound like you've seen it happen."
He didn't answer. Instead, he walked toward the exit, his shadow long across the floor. Just before he reached the door, he turned back.
"You can't find Room 308," he said. "Because you're not supposed to."
She swallowed. "What does that mean?"
His voice dropped, almost a whisper.
"But it can find you."
Then he was gone, leaving only the faint sound of the rain against the windows.
---
That night, Amelia sat on her bed with her notebook open, replaying his words again and again. It can find you.
She wanted to tell Harper, but something stopped her. Harper had been acting distant all day, distracted, almost nervous. When Amelia asked if she was okay, she just said, "I'm fine," and turned away.
It was nearly midnight when Amelia finally lay down. The dorm was dark, the rain had stopped, and the silence pressed close.
She reached under her pillow to adjust it—and froze.
Her fingers brushed paper.
She pulled it out slowly. A folded slip, the edges damp, as if it had been left there for hours.
Her hands trembled as she opened it. The handwriting was jagged, uneven, but readable.
«Don't go back to the East Wing after midnight.»
There was no signature.
Only a faint, wet fingerprint beside the words.
Amelia sat up, heart racing, staring at the note as the wind whispered through the cracks of the window.
Outside, somewhere far above, the bell tower began to chime—twelve slow, heavy times.
And just as the last note faded, the tapping started again.