The next morning, the sky hung low, the color of old chalk—flat, dull, and heavy.
Kai threw on his uniform with half-effort, buttoned it wrong, fixed it, then gave up halfway through. His footsteps creaked down the hallway just as his grandmother called from the kitchen.
grandma: "Kai-kun, I made breakfast."
kai: "Not hungry."
He didn't look back. The door shut behind him with a soft click.
At school, nothing had changed.
The same low hum of hallway chatter. The same faces that stared too long, then looked away. The same teachers speaking too quickly in a language Kai hadn't mastered yet.
His footsteps echoed down the corridors, quieter than the rest. He moved like a smudge on clean paper—visible, but unwanted.
In class, he sat near the back again. The teacher didn't call on him. No one passed him notes. A few glances, but nothing more.
The clock above the blackboard ticked steadily, louder than it should have.
3:11 PM.
Kai's eyes stayed fixed on the second hand.
3:12.
It stopped.
Just for a moment.
Then: tick.
The lights overhead buzzed. One of them flickered briefly, casting a sharp, pale blink across the room.
A pen rolled slightly on his desk.
No one else noticed.
After school, Kai didn't go straight home. He wandered the edges of campus, past the gym, through the garden, until he reached the old west wing.
A faded strip of caution tape fluttered weakly in the wind. The door stood sealed with rusted chains looped through the handles.
The windows were covered in grime, but he leaned in anyway, pressing his palm against the glass.
Inside: nothing but shadows.
The air grew still.
Footsteps echoed from inside the hallway. Three of them. Then silence.
kai (quietly): "...Hello?"
Only the wind answered.
That evening, his grandmother served dinner while the radio played softly in the background. She poured tea, set down bowls of miso and rice, then sat across from him.
grandma: "Did something happen at school today?"
Kai didn't respond right away. He moved the rice around in his bowl.
kai: "What's the deal with that old wing? The one taped off."
The clink of chopsticks paused midair. She didn't look surprised—just tired.
grandma: "They don't use that part anymore. It's old."
kai: "Why keep it locked?"
grandma: "Too many accidents, a long time ago. Best to leave it alone."
She said it lightly. Like it was nothing. But her eyes stayed on her tea, not him.
That night, the rain returned.
Kai's room was quiet, lit only by the streetlamp outside his window. The shadows stretched long across the floorboards.
He didn't fall asleep so much as drift.
In the dream, the school hallway was endless.
Lights flickered above him. The walls pulsed like they were breathing. The tiles under his shoes shimmered with a thin layer of water, though he left no footprints.
At the far end of the corridor, the door to the west wing stood wide open.
Past it: darkness. Not just the absence of light—something heavier.
A soft voice whispered from the black. Familiar. Gentle. Calling his name.
kai (in the dream): "Who's there?"
A low creak answered.
The light from the hallway behind him flickered—and then the clock appeared, hanging above the open door.
3:12.
Its second hand was vibrating. Not ticking. Not moving. Just trembling.
Kai woke with a jolt, breath sharp in his chest.
The room was still.
He glanced at his phone. The screen lit up with one number that made his stomach twist:
3:12 AM.
The second ticked.
He didn't move. Not for a long time.