The second bell rang at Blackwood High with its usual shrill finality, echoing through the narrow hallways like a warning no one listened to.

In Room 14, Mrs. Luminari stood at the front of the class, clipboard in hand, her posture as exact as the lettering on her chalkboard. Morning light slanted through the windows, highlighting dust motes in the stale air. The classroom murmured with whispers, shuffling feet, and the scratch of pens.

She began roll call in her crisp, unbending tone.

“Felix Addington.”

“Here.”

“Lydia Barnes.”

“Present.”

“Mavis Valtor?”

A pause.

She glanced up, eyes flicking to the third row.

Mavis’s desk was empty. Clean. The chair still tucked in. No bag slumped beside it, no sweater hung on the back.

“Mavis Valtor?” she repeated, just in case.

No answer. No cough. No clumsy arrival at the door.

A beat of silence stretched a little too long.

Ruby snorted and leaned toward Ravenna, whispering, “Guess the freak finally floated off with the fog.”

A few giggles followed. Not many. Just enough.

Sasha kept her eyes on her desk, lips pressed thin.

Mrs. Luminari lowered her clipboard slowly. She didn’t say anything to the class, but her gaze lingered on the empty chair as if trying to solve something in its stillness. Then she resumed the list, though her voice had lost some of its edge.

For the rest of the lesson, no one sat in Mavis Valtor’s place.

And no one filled the quiet it left behind.

Across town, morning broke slower on Maple Hollow. Fog still curled along the hedges, and the earth was wet from the night's storm. Birds were scarce. Even the usual sound of milk bottles clinking down the street felt... wrong.

Nana stood on her front porch in her housecoat and slippers, holding a tin bowl of food Mittens had refused to touch.

The white cat was pacing.

Tail low. Shoulders high. His ears swiveled with every sound—the rustle of trees, the creak of gates, the shifting wind.

Nana looked down. “You’re nervous, old boy,” she murmured. “What’s gotten into you?”

She set the bowl down and glanced toward the path leading to the Valtor house. It was quiet over there. Too quiet. No slamming doors. No hurried footsteps. And most importantly no Mavis.

The girl usually came by, even briefly. A quiet knock. A soft hello. A few saved crusts from breakfast, or just a moment to scratch behind Mittens’s ear.

But not this morning.

And not last night either, now that Nana thought about it.

She walked back inside and wiped her hands on her apron. The clock ticked louder than usual. Her tea had gone cold.

A quiet knowing tightened in her chest the kind that came with age, with gut memory, with having outlived more than a few people you once saw every day.

Something’s wrong.

Mittens darted to the windowsill, stared out, and gave a low growl.

Nana picked up the phone. She didn’t know whether to call the school, the police, or the Valtors. But she knew silence like this always came before grief.

And it had a smell today. Damp. Rotten. Familiar.

Back at the Valtor house, the kitchen smelled like burnt toast and cigarette smoke.

Viletta stood at the counter in Richard’s old robe, stirring instant coffee with the handle of a fork. Her crimson nails glinted in the weak morning light. One was chipped. She didn’t care.

A sharp knock rattled the front door.

She sighed.

When she opened it, old Mrs. Calloway stood on the porch in curlers and a floral housecoat, the ever-yipping terrier tucked under one arm.

“Haven’t seen your girl around,” Calloway said with a tight smile. “Everything alright?”

Viletta took a long sip of her coffee. “Mavis?” she said casually. “Oh, she’s probably sulking in some ditch or crying in the woods. She’ll turn up.”

Calloway blinked. “Well, I just thought

with that storm and all”

“Storms don’t hurt girls like her,” Viletta cut in, leaning against the doorframe. “If she’s smart, she ran off. If she’s stupid, she’ll come crawling back.”

The dog growled. Viletta hissed at it.

“She’s what, fifteen?” she added. “Old enough to know better. Old enough to get lost.”

She gave the neighbor a smile so empty it barely qualified as a shape.

Calloway shifted uncomfortably, murmured something polite, and walked away with the dog still barking over her shoulder.

Viletta closed the door with a soft thud and lit a cigarette.

From the living room, Richard stirred but didn’t wake.

Viletta exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “People disappear all the time,” she said aloud, then chuckled under her breath.

Outside, the fog didn’t lift.

It pressed harder.