Amy left the house early.
"I forgot something," she called to Mrs Carter, already halfway out the door.
"Five minutes," Mrs Carter reminded her gently. "Don't rush."
Five minutes.
Amy stepped into the cold air.
Five minutes wasn't long.
But today it felt deliberate.
Measured.
Timed.
She walked slower than usual.
Past the bus stop.
Past the café with the scratched window.
Past the chemist with the CCTV dome angled toward the pavement.
If someone wanted to watch—
Five minutes was enough.
If someone wanted to upload something—
Five minutes was more than enough.
Her phone stayed silent in her pocket.
That worried her more.
When she reached the community centre, the door was already unlocked.
Rowan stood just inside the foyer.
Not on his phone.
Not typing.
Just staring at the noticeboard.
Specifically—
At an old photograph pinned in the corner.
Amy's breath caught.
It was the same image that she had received, the one of younger Rowan, a girl that was thought to be Rowan's sister Ayla and that figure in the window.
But this copy wasn't cropped.
The girl's face was fully visible.
Clearer than on Amy's screen.
"You got it too," Rowan said quietly, without turning around.
Amy's pulse jumped. "Got what?"
He looked at her then.
"The photo."
So he had received it.
"When?" she asked.
"This morning."
"What time?"
"6:07."
Amy's mind flicked through the numbers.
Her message last night — 6:04.
Three minutes.
Not random.
Staggered.
Patterns repeat.
She stepped closer to the board.
Beneath the photo was a name written in pen.
But someone had scratched across it hard enough to tear the paper.
Only the first letter remained.
A.
"That's her," Rowan said.
His voice wasn't defensive.
It wasn't guarded.
It was tiring.
"What's her name?" Amy asked carefully.
The building creaked softly around them.
"She used to sit exactly where you sit," he said instead.
"That's not what I asked."
"I know."
Amy studied his face.
There was something different now.
Less control.
More strain.
"She stopped coming," he continued quietly. "After a while."
"Why?"
Rowan finally met her eyes.
"You think I don't know what you're implying?"
Amy didn't answer.
He looked back at the photograph.
"She thought someone was helping her," he said. "At first."
The words landed heavy.
"Helping how?" Amy pressed.
"Editing. Fixing. Improving." His jaw tightened. "Telling her what would make it stronger."
Stronger.
Louder.
Marketable.
The vocabulary was consistent.
Too consistent.
Amy's stomach twisted.
"Who?" she asked.
Rowan's fingers curled slightly at his sides.
Before he could answer, the door behind them opened.
Sarah walked in, bright and brisk, keys jangling lightly in her hand.
"You're both early! Perfect. I wanted to talk about next week's showcase."
Rowan stepped back immediately.
Conversation sealed shut.
Amy glanced once more at the photo.
At the scratched-out name.
At the single remaining letter.
A.
As Sarah moved toward the office, Amy's phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
One message.
You're standing where she stood.
Amy's breath thinned.
She slowly lifted her gaze from the screen.
Rowan wasn't looking at his phone.
He wasn't even near it.
He was watching the hallway where Sarah had disappeared.
Not anxious.
Focused.
Like he was waiting for a door to close fully.
Another message came through.
Ask Sarah how many people left that year.
Amy's pulse slammed against her ribs.
That year.
Her thoughts aligned with a click that felt too clean.
Three years ago.
Year 8.
Rowan had said that's when it started.
The partial email — r.w_08.
The escalation pattern.
Five minutes from home.
Three minutes between messages.
Delays.
Offsets.
Precision.
She looked back at the photograph.
Something else caught her eye now.
A faint logo in the bottom corner.
Not the school crest.
The community centre's.
Which meant—
The picture hadn't been taken at school.
It had been taken here.
At writing club.
Before Rowan had ever joined.
Before he'd needed to warn anyone.
Her stomach dropped.
Because that meant someone else had been in this building when it happened.
Someone with access.
Someone trusted.
At the end of the corridor, Sarah's office door clicked shut.
Amy stared at it.
If the messages were telling the truth—
Then the answer wasn't just in Rowan's past.
It wasn't in initials.
It wasn't in five-minute windows.
It was in proximity.
Who unlocked the doors.
Who said let me help.
And suddenly—
Five minutes didn't feel like enough time at all.