It was late afternoon when you found yourselves at the old playground, the one behind the elementary school that still smelled faintly of rust and rain. The sky was heavy, bruised purple with evening, and the air hummed with that kind of silence that only small towns seem to know.

You sat on the swings, your shoes scraping at the dirt, watching the metal creak with every back-and-forth. Ernesto was next to you, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, gently rocking in place.

The rumors had gotten worse lately. Whispers in hallways, laughter when you walked by. Witch. Freak. Crazy girl who dreams of the dead. They said it like you couldn’t hear, but you always did. And maybe, in a way, they weren’t entirely wrong. You had dreamed of the missing children. You had seen them before the police found their bodies.

You kicked the ground once, hard enough to make the chains rattle.

“Do you think I’m weird?” you asked, eyes fixed on the ground.

He tilted his head, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. “Definitely.”

You looked up, deadpan. “I’m serious, Ernesto.”

“So what? Everybody’s weird. Some just hide it better.”

You turned to face him, but he was already looking at you, steady, calm, unbothered in a way that made your chest ache.

“Plus,” he said, voice quieter now, “you’re cool. Way cooler than half the assholes who talk about you.”