Barney didn't come to school the next day.
At first, no one thought much of it. He'd skipped before. Once for a concert. Once because he "felt allergic to Thursdays." Classic Barney stuff.
But this time felt different.
The seat next to Hale was cold. Silent. Almost too silent. No snide remark. No obnoxious laugh. No gum-sticking ritual under the desk.
Just space.
Just absence.
During attendance, Mr. Layton paused over the roll call, eyes flicking toward the empty seat. Then he cleared his throat and moved on without a word. No one said anything. No one asked.
At lunch, Hale kept glancing toward the table near the vending machines. The usual place. The unofficial throne of chaotic commentary.
Empty.
"He's probably just faking the flu again," someone muttered.
But Hale's spoon trembled in his hand.
That look—Barney's frozen face. The glow on his skin like a brand. Those wide, glassy eyes staring at something Hale still couldn't name.
He had seen it. He had lived it.
And he knew something nobody else did.
Barney wasn't just absent.
He was gone.
In English class, someone asked if they could borrow a pencil from the back desk. Hale turned sharply. That had always been Barney's desk when he was late.
"You mean Hale's desk?" another kid said casually. "He's always back there."
That's not true, Hale wanted to say. But the words caught. The air in his lungs felt wrong.
Like it had been rewound.
That night, the cold didn't wait until 3:12.
It lived in the corners of Hale's room. It coiled around his ankles. It watched him from the shadows with still, patient eyes.
Hale stayed awake, staring at the ceiling. His eyes wide, unblinking. Every creak in the wood was a footstep. Every gust of wind a breath on his neck.
His fingers clenched the sheets—not from fear, but from something worse.
Grief.
A deep, hollow grief the world refused to feel with him.
3:00 AM.
Tick.
3:05 AM.
Tick.
3:08 AM.
His heart thudded—slow, heavy. Not from panic.
From expectation.
A dreadful certainty.
3:11.
Tick.
3:12.
...
Nothing.
No flickering lights.
No twitching fan.
No shifting walls or blood-curdling visions.
Just the sound of his own breath.
Too loud. Too real.
And for a fleeting moment, Hale wondered—
Was it all a dream?
But the silence answered for him.
Not empty.
Not peaceful.
Watching.