THE SILENCE WITHIN US

The first strange thing about that morning was that my alarm didn't go off. The second was that I woke up at exactly 7:13 anyway. I wouldn't understand the third until much later. If I'd known what was coming, I probably would have pulled the covers over my head and stayed in bed. Although, knowing my luck, it would have happened anyway. I'd just have been wearing pajamas.

I reached for my phone and squinted at the screen. 7:14. Three missed calls from Mum, a message from my phone provider, and a notification that yet another app wanted an update. Clearly, the world was managing perfectly well without me.

I dragged myself up and went to the bathroom. A sleep-deprived boy with brown hair stared back at me from the mirror. There were shadows under his eyes, and his hair stuck up at an angle that suggested someone had tried to pull him out of bed by it. "Impressive," I muttered. I tried to flatten it. Somehow I made it worse. I gave up.

A folded note waited beside the coffee maker.

Noel,

I'll be home late tonight. There's dinner in the fridge, and please eat an actual meal. A cereal bar is not dinner.

Love you, Mum.

P.S. Don't use the washing machine. It's making a strange noise.

I smiled. According to Mum, any appliance that made a strange noise instantly became a danger to society. The washing machine had been making strange noises for three years and was still going strong.

I texted her back: Alive. Will eat. Won't touch the washing machine.

Her reply came a few seconds later. Good. Love you.

Love you too.

I put down my phone and started the coffee maker. The flat was quiet. It was always quiet.

When I was younger, that used to bother me. I would leave the television on just to have someone talking in the background. Eventually I got used to the silence. I even came to like it. Silence didn't ask why I was the way I was. Why I didn't talk more. Why I never went to parties. Why I still didn't have a girlfriend.

That last question was especially popular with distant relatives. If I'd been given a pound every time someone asked whether there was anyone special in my life, I could probably have bought myself a small island by now. An island where nobody asked questions. Perfect.

* * *

On the bus, I took my usual seat by the window, somewhere near the middle. I put my earphones in and started a playlist.

Outside, the city was slowly waking up. The overnight rain had stopped, but the streets still gleamed with moisture. People hurried around puddles while cars crawled impatiently through intersections. It was early October: the sort of autumn when the mornings had turned cold but everyone stubbornly refused to dig out their winter coats.

I opened the university website on my phone. My semester had started three weeks earlier. There was nothing particularly wrong with university. The lectures were interesting, most of the professors seemed normal, and so far I'd managed to avoid any situation that required speaking in front of thirty people.

There was just one thing I hadn't expected. Apparently, it was possible to be just as lonely at university as anywhere else.

I had people I spoke to. People I worked with on assignments or exchanged a few words with between classes. But I wouldn't have called any of them friends. Not because they were unkind. Somehow, I just always ended up on the outside, as though everyone else had received an instruction manual for human relationships and I'd missed the handout.

The bus hit a pothole and I nearly slammed my forehead into the window. "Brilliant," I sighed.

The girl standing beside me looked over. I immediately pretended that something outside was fascinating. A tree, perhaps. Trees, at least, didn't judge.

* * *

I barely paid attention during the first lecture. It wasn't boring. I just had a strange headache.

It wasn't the sharp, splitting kind. It felt more like a dull pressure behind my temples, as if someone were pressing two fingers against the inside of my skull. Every so often it came with a wave of dizziness. Once, when I bent down for my bag, I felt the room shift for a fraction of a second.

Not me. The room.

The chairs, the desks, the walls. As though someone had pushed reality a few inches sideways and then hurriedly snapped it back into place.

I blinked. Everything was normal. The professor continued explaining something at the front. The boy beside me was doodling in his notebook. Nobody else reacted.

I rubbed my temples. Probably lack of sleep.

I'd been having strange dreams lately. The same place, over and over: a long, dark corridor; tall, narrow windows; water dripping somewhere out of sight. At the end stood a door. It was black and heavy, with a peculiar silver symbol set into it.

I never reached it. I always woke before I could open it.

At first, I hadn't thought much of it. People dreamed weird things. Once I'd dreamed my secondary-school maths teacher chased me around a supermarket on the back of an enormous raven. A dark corridor seemed restrained by comparison.

What bothered me was that the door always looked exactly the same. Even the little scratch beside the handle was in the same place.

* * *

I finished after three in the afternoon. By then clouds had swallowed the sky, and a cold wind swept through the streets. Instead of taking the bus straight home, I decided to walk for a while. I needed fresh air. Possibly coffee as well. Or two coffees. My headache hadn't gone away.

The high street was crowded. People poured out of shops, talked on their phones, chatted, or hurried toward somewhere they needed to be. I walked near the edge of the pavement, avoiding larger groups.

I stopped in front of a bookshop window. A dark-covered novel with a title stamped in gold lay on the middle shelf. On the cover stood an old castle, half-hidden by mist. For some reason, I stared at it for a long time.

Then I shook my head. I probably just liked the cover. Nothing more.

A few steps later, someone bumped into me. "Sorry!" a girl called.

"No problem," I said automatically.

She had already hurried on. She looked about my age, with long fair hair falling over the collar of her coat. She held a takeaway coffee in one hand while trying to shove her phone into her bag with the other. She was heading for the crossing. I was a few steps behind her.

The pedestrian light was red. I stopped. So did she.

Then something happened.

At first, it was only a sound: a high, faint ringing, like a wet finger tracing the rim of a thin glass. I looked around instinctively. Nobody else seemed to hear it.

The ringing grew louder. The pressure behind my temples sharpened into pain. For a moment my vision blurred.

And then everything stopped.

I don't know how else to describe it. A falling leaf hung motionless in midair. The wind died. The man beside me stood with his mouth half-open, caught halfway through a sentence. The cars were still. Even the sounds were gone. The world had become a photograph.

Except I could move.

My heart began hammering. "What the—?"

My voice sounded terribly wrong in the silence. I stumbled backward.

That was when I saw the girl.

She wasn't on the pavement anymore. She stood in the middle of the road. Her coffee cup had fallen from her hand, a brown arc of liquid suspended in the air. A dark car was about to hit her. Not approaching—frozen inches away, its bumper already touching her coat. Terror twisted her face.

Then the world moved again.

Noise crashed into me all at once. Screeching brakes. A scream. Shattering glass. A sickening thud.

The girl flew into the air and struck the road several feet away. The paper cup rolled across the asphalt. Someone screamed. I couldn't move.

She lay on her back, her head turned at an unnatural angle. Her hair spread across the wet road. Her eyes were open. She didn't move. She wasn't breathing.

I knew she was dead. Not because I knew anything about medicine. I simply knew, with a certainty that made my stomach twist.

The ringing returned, louder this time. My knees shook. Darkness crept into the corners of my vision.

And something cracked.

There was no audible snap, but I felt it—as if the world were a vast sheet of glass and a hairline fracture had raced across its surface.

The girl's body blurred. The screech of brakes shrieked backward. Shards of glass rose from the road. The coffee lifted off the asphalt and rushed back into its cup. The car slid several feet in reverse.

And the girl—

The girl was standing on the pavement again.

Alive.

The crossing light was red. The man beside me continued talking into his phone. The wind stirred the leaves again. Somewhere behind me, someone laughed.

I staggered backward into a lamppost.

"Are you all right, mate?" a stranger asked.

I didn't answer. I was watching the girl. She stood there, alive and unharmed, slipping her phone into her bag.

Then the light turned green. She crossed the road. Exactly where she had died a moment before.

This time, the car stopped. There was no accident. Nobody screamed. Nothing shattered. There was only me, standing there trying to remember how to breathe.

"Hey." The man turned toward me again. "You sure you're okay?"

I shook my head. Then nodded. Then shook it again. I must have looked convincing.

"I think..." I began. But how could I possibly finish that sentence?

I think I just watched someone die who is currently walking along the opposite pavement?

That would go over brilliantly.

"I just felt dizzy," I managed.

The man studied me another moment, then shrugged. "Get yourself some water."

"Yeah. Thanks."

He left. I remained where I was, my hands trembling so badly I could barely take out my phone.

I checked the time. 3:47 p.m.

Then checked again. 3:47.

The minute hadn't changed. The world had.

* * *

I don't remember exactly how I got home. I remember boarding a bus. I remember almost getting off at the wrong stop. And I remember replaying the same scene over and over.

The girl lying on the asphalt. The spilled coffee. Her open eyes. Then her smile as she walked safely across the street.

When I got home, I locked the door. Then checked it was locked. Then checked again.

I sat down on the kitchen floor, the cold tiles pressing against my back, and tried to breathe slowly. In. Out. In. Out.

It was useless. My brain kept trying to make sense of it. A hallucination? A panic attack? Some kind of neurological problem?

That last possibility scared me most. I looked up my symptoms online. Ten minutes later, I was convinced I had at least six separate fatal illnesses.

I put the phone down. "Well done, Noel," I told the silent flat. "Very helpful."

Nobody answered. For some reason, the silence bothered me now.

I got up, drank a glass of water, and tried to make dinner. Mum's vegetable pasta was waiting in the fridge. I put it in the microwave and set the timer for two minutes.

Then I noticed something reflected in the dark window.

Someone stood behind me.

A boy. Taller than me. Dressed in dark clothes. His face was blurred, but his eyes... His eyes shone strangely.

I spun around. Nobody was there. The kitchen was empty. The microwave hummed on. My heart battered against my ribs.

Slowly, I turned back to the window. Only my own reflection stared back: pale face, dark shadows beneath my eyes.

"Okay," I whispered. "This is getting ridiculous."

The microwave beeped. I jumped.

And then I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because if I didn't laugh, I thought I might cry.

* * *

Mum came home after ten. By then I'd pulled myself together enough to pass for a normal human being. I hoped.

"Hi, sweetheart!" she called from the hall.

"Hi!"

I heard her kick off her shoes and set down her bag. A moment later she appeared in the living room. She looked tired. Strands of hair had escaped her bun, and tiny raindrops glimmered on her coat.

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Properly?"

"Mum."

"I'm only asking."

"Pasta."

"Wonderful." She smiled, then looked at me more closely. "Are you all right?"

I stiffened. "Of course."

"You're pale."

"That's my default setting."

She didn't laugh. She rested a hand on the back of the sofa. "Noel."

I hated when she said my name like that. It always felt as though she could see straight through me.

"I've just got a headache," I admitted.

"Since when?"

"This morning."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want you worrying all day."

"I'd rather worry than not know."

I nodded. She sat down beside me. We were quiet for a while.

"Did something happen at university?" she asked.

For a moment, I almost told her. About the accident. The girl. The impossible thing I'd seen.

But as I opened my mouth, something stopped me. I couldn't explain why. I just felt, suddenly and with terrible certainty, that I mustn't talk about it.

The feeling was so strong my stomach clenched. As though someone had planted a thought inside my head.

Don't tell her.

I blinked.

"No," I said at last. "Nothing unusual."

Mum watched me for a few seconds, then smoothed my hair.

"All right. But if your head still hurts tomorrow, we're seeing a doctor."

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She went to the kitchen. I stayed on the sofa, a strange weight settling in my chest.

Not just because I'd lied. For a moment, I'd had the unmistakable feeling that this had happened before. The same conversation. The same room. Her hand in my hair. Me lying to her.

Only I couldn't remember when.

* * *

Long after midnight, I was still turning over in bed. Rain tapped an uneven rhythm against the window. My room was dark except for the faint glow of my phone on the bedside table.

I had almost fallen asleep when I heard it.

Three soft knocks.

I opened my eyes and waited.

Nothing.

Then again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I sat up. The sound hadn't come from the window. It had come from the door.

"Mum?" I called.

No answer.

I got out of bed. The floor was cold beneath my bare feet. I opened the door a crack. The hallway was empty. Mum's bedroom door was shut. The whole flat was silent.

I was about to turn back when I saw it.

Something glimmered on the inside of my bedroom door, just above the handle.

A symbol, traced in thin silver lines. A circle with three intersecting arcs inside it. The lines pulsed gently with their own light.

I stumbled backward. Blinked. The symbol vanished. The wooden door looked perfectly ordinary again.

I leaned against the wall, my mouth dry.

This can't be happening.

I closed my eyes. And suddenly I saw it: a dark corridor, tall windows, the sound of dripping water. At the far end, a black door bearing that exact same silver symbol.

My stomach tightened.

The dream. The recurring dream.

Only I wasn't asleep now.

And a voice spoke from behind the door. Not aloud. Not exactly in my ears. More like a thought that had appeared directly inside my mind.

Noel.

It was a boy's voice. Faint. Exhausted. Desperate.

Don't forget me again.

The next moment, everything went black.

* * *

I woke the following morning to someone ringing the doorbell. My phone said 8:26. My headache was gone. There was no symbol on my bedroom door.

For a moment, I thought the entire previous day might have been a particularly vivid nightmare.

Then I looked at my palm.

Three thin silver lines marked my skin, arranged exactly like the symbol on the door.

The bell rang again. Mum had already left for work.

I stood slowly, my heart beating harder with every step. In the hall, I stopped in front of the door.

Through the peephole, I saw a man in his late forties wearing an elegant dark coat. His graying hair was combed neatly back, and he carried a black leather briefcase. I didn't know him. At least, I didn't think I did.

He rang a third time.

"Noel Ashbourne?" he called calmly. "I know you're in there."

I froze. "Who are you?"

A pause.

"My name is Nathaniel Vale. I'm here on behalf of Veyra Academy."

The name meant nothing to me. Still, hearing it sent a cold sensation down my spine.

"I've never heard of any academy."

"I know."

There wasn't a trace of surprise in his voice. Somehow that frightened me more than anything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

"Then what do you want?"

Through the peephole, I watched him lift his head slowly and look straight at me, as though he knew exactly where I stood on the other side.

"I'm afraid we need to talk about yesterday's accident."

The air caught in my lungs.

"What accident?"

"The one that didn't happen."

I couldn't speak. He stepped closer to the door.

"Noel, please. This is extremely important."

I looked down at my palm. The silver lines had begun to glow faintly again.

"How do you know about that?" I whispered.

He was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice had changed. It no longer sounded official. There was something tired and unmistakably sad in it.

"Because something similar happened to you four years ago."

I swayed. My hand found the doorknob.

"That's impossible."

"I wish it were."

I turned the handle. The door swung open slowly. The man stood on the threshold. Up close, he looked more exhausted than he had through the peephole, with deep lines beneath his eyes.

His gaze dropped to my palm. He saw the mark. His face went pale.

"My God," he whispered.

"What?"

For a moment he didn't answer. He stared at my hand as though he were looking at something he had been dreading for years.

Then he raised his eyes to mine.

"Noel," he said softly, "the question isn't what happened to you yesterday."

My stomach knotted.

He took a single step closer.

"It's why you're beginning to remember again."