Prolonge
PROLOGUE — The Promise We Forgot
I don’t remember the first time I was lost.
That feels important, like something I should underline twice in red ink, but my memory refuses to cooperate. All I have is a feeling—thin and sharp as a paper cut—that I’ve been standing in the wrong place for a very long time.
The hallway smells like dust and old rain. Bellweather Academy is quiet in the way that isn’t peaceful, the way a held breath isn’t peaceful. The lockers lining the walls look older than they should, their paint chipped like they’ve been scraped by fingernails instead of backpacks.
I am younger here. I know that without knowing how. My shoes don’t quite fit, and my hands are smudged with chalk.
There’s a wall in front of me that shouldn’t be there.
It’s not brick or glass, not really. It’s more like the idea of a wall—shimmering, faintly reflective, rippling like water that forgot how to move. On the other side stands a boy.
I know him.
That knowledge hits harder than fear.
He’s watching me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks. His name is on the tip of my tongue, heavy and warm and terrifying.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to be here,” he says.
I smile anyway. I’ve always smiled at the wrong moments.
“Then we’d better remember it,” I tell him. “In case we forget.”
He presses his palm to the barrier. I mirror it. The surface between us hums, like it’s annoyed we’re touching it at all.
“If we forget,” he says slowly, carefully, “we’ll come back.”
I nod. “We’ll find clues.”
“Leave notes,” he adds.
“And trust each other,” I finish.
The bell rings—too loud, too close—and the world fractures like glass dropped on stone.
The last thing I feel is the certainty that forgetting will hurt more than being lost.
