THE MISTED SCHOOL
The mist arrived before the bell.
It always did.
By the time the first buses rolled to a stop and students poured through the iron gates, it had already settled over the school grounds, thin and pale like a breath held too long. It curled around ankles and clung to the edges of backpacks, drifting lazily as if it had nowhere else to be.
No one paid attention anymore.
“Ugh, it’s freezing today,” someone complained behind me.
Another voice laughed. “It’s just fog. You’d think people here have never seen weather before.”
They walked straight through it, careless, unbothered. Shoes disappeared for a moment, then reappeared. The mist parted for them and closed again, as if nothing had happened.
I slowed my steps.
The school looked different when the mist came. The tall building at the center seemed farther away, its windows dim and distant. The old clock tower faded into a blur, the time unreadable. Even the trees lining the path looked unfamiliar, their branches stretching like shadows instead of wood.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and kept walking.
I had been at this school long enough to know the routine. The mist appeared most mornings, especially when the air was quiet and the sky was a dull, washed-out grey. Teachers called it “early fog.” Students joked about it. The announcements never mentioned it.
But standing there, with the mist brushing against my legs, I felt the same unease I always did.
It felt like being watched.
The closer I got to the main entrance, the thicker the fog became. Sounds dulled — footsteps softened, voices blurred together. It was as if the world had been wrapped in cotton.
I took another step.
And then I heard it.
At first, I thought it was just my imagination. The mist played tricks on sound; everyone knew that. I stopped walking, holding my breath, listening.
There it was again.
A whisper.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t clear. It didn’t come from any one direction. It slipped through the mist itself, brushing past my ear like a secret never meant to be heard.
I froze.
“Hello?” someone called from behind me. “Are you coming or what?”
I turned around quickly. A group of students stood a few steps back, impatient, unaware. The mist around them seemed thinner, lighter, as if it didn’t touch them the way it touched me.
“I—yeah,” I said, forcing a nod.
They moved past me, laughing, their voices sharp and real. The moment they did, the sound faded again, swallowed by the fog.
I stood there alone.
My heart beat faster. I told myself I was tired. That I hadn’t slept enough. That whispers didn’t come from mist.
Still, I listened.
The fog shifted, thickening near the old science wing — the part of the school no one used anymore. The windows there were always dark, the doors always locked. Teachers said it was under renovation. Students said it was haunted.
The whisper came again.
This time, it was clearer.
A name.
I couldn’t tell whose.
I stepped back, every instinct telling me to leave it alone. The bell rang then, loud and sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade. The mist trembled, thinning just a little.
Students rushed past me, late now, complaining, running. The moment the crowd returned, the whisper stopped.
Gone.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
By the time I reached my classroom, the mist outside the windows had already begun to fade. Sunlight pushed through, weak but present. The school looked normal again — plain walls, scratched desks, familiar faces.
I slid into my seat.
“Did you hear about the assembly?” the girl next to me asked, pulling out her notebook.
I shook my head. “No.”
She shrugged. “Probably nothing important.”
I nodded, but my attention drifted back to the window.
The mist hadn’t disappeared completely.
It lingered near the edges of the building, faint but waiting, like it wasn’t finished yet. Like it had something left to say.
I pressed my fingers against the desk, trying to steady myself.
I didn’t tell anyone what I’d heard.
Not because I was scared they wouldn’t believe me.
But because, deep down, I was afraid that the mist hadn’t been whispering to everyone.
Only to me.
