*"The living are often harder to wake than the dead." — The Fool*
The school smelled of disinfectant and rain-wet pavement, a strangely fitting perfume for resurrection.
Jake Faust walked the halls like a rumour. Two days after the accident, he was already back, moving through classes as if nothing had happened. People stared. Whispered. No one wanted to say it aloud, but they all knew — he'd been gone for a few minutes.
A miracle, they said.
The word made Jake want to laugh and throw up at the same time.
He moved through the corridor like a ghost, every sound slightly off-beat — lockers slamming a half-second too late, fluorescent lights humming in strange syncopation. It wasn't just his nerves. The world itself seemed... delayed.
He'd told no one that he hadn't dreamed since the accident. Not once. Whenever he tried to sleep, he felt like he was falling upward — into endless light that hurt to look at.
"Jake?"
He turned. Mira Solen was standing by the notice board, clutching her books against her chest. Her smile was the kind people put on for funerals.
"You came back early," she said. "I thought you were still—"
"Dead?" he finished. His tone was dry, almost cruel.
She flinched, and he immediately hated himself for it. "Sorry. Bad joke."
"It's okay," she said softly, though her eyes said otherwise. "Everyone's just... worried. You don't even look like you slept."
"Didn't," he admitted.
They stood in the humming quiet for a moment, both pretending it was normal. Then a voice broke in from down the hall — polite, smooth, a little too even.
"Jacob Faust?"
He turned. A woman was waiting by the office door. She looked like she belonged to another world — charcoal-grey suit, neat braid, expressionless professionalism. She held a clipboard.
"I'm Ms Kaine," she said. "I'm the guidance counsellor filling in this week. Would you come with me for a brief check-in?"
Jake glanced at Mira, who gave a helpless shrug. "Sure."
---
The office was small, almost comfortable. A single window let in the overcast light. There were motivational posters on the wall — faded platitudes about purpose and growth — and a plant that was probably fake.
Ms Kaine sat behind the desk, gesturing for him to take the seat opposite. She smiled, professional but distant.
"I heard about your accident," she began. "That must have been frightening."
Jake shrugged. "Don't really remember much."
"Do you remember *anything*?"
The way she asked it made him pause. It wasn't idle curiosity — it was testing. Measuring.
He frowned. "Just noise. Lights. Then… cold. Like I was underwater."
Her pen paused on the clipboard. "Underwater?"
"Yeah." He hesitated. "And someone calling my name, I think. I couldn't move."
Her eyes lifted, sharp and assessing. "And when you woke up?"
"I didn't feel... right." He hesitated. "Like everything was too slow. Like I was watching through glass."
"Interesting."
Jake frowned. "That's... not the usual counsellor thing to say."
Her lips curved faintly. "No, I suppose not." She leaned forward slightly. "You ever hear something since then? Words you can't quite make out? Or see things out of place — reflections that don't match?"
That stopped him cold.
"How do you—"
She interrupted smoothly. "It's normal after trauma. The mind... plays tricks."
Jake looked down at his hands. They were trembling. "Yeah. Tricks."
The silence between them thickened, not awkward but heavy, as though the air itself had gained weight. Outside, a bell rang — the tone flat, too long, wrong.
She set down her pen and folded her hands. Her gloves were black leather, faintly cracked. "Can I show you something?"
He nodded warily.
From her coat pocket, she drew out a small silver coin, etched with a symbol he didn't recognise — a circle with an inverted triangle inside. She held it up between them.
"What do you see?"
He stared at it. For a heartbeat, it was just metal. Then the light bent around it, twisting. A shimmer, faint but real, passed across his vision — and behind the coin, for an instant, he saw something impossible: a vast figure hanging upside-down in a silver void, suspended by a thread of light.
He blinked — it was gone.
"What the hell was that?"
Ms Kaine's face was unreadable. "Just a trick of the light."
She slipped the coin back into her pocket. "That's all for today, Jake. Thank you for your time."
He stared at her, still shaken. "That's it?"
"For now." Her smile softened, almost kind. "You've been through enough. Go home, get rest."
He stood, unsure whether to feel relieved or watched. As he turned to leave, she spoke again, quieter:
> "Jake?"
He stopped.
> "If you start seeing more... glass things — reflections, strings, distortions — don't touch them. They'll touch back."
His blood ran cold. "What?"
But when he turned, she was already gathering her papers, her attention elsewhere, as though the conversation had never happened.
---
Outside the office, the hallway was empty. Too empty.
He could still hear her voice, echoing faintly — *don't touch them*.
He rubbed his eyes, exhaled, and looked up.
At the far end of the corridor, the janitor's mirror leaned against the wall. His reflection was upside down.