The thought of the ball stuck to Patrick's mind—not as a desire, but as an annoying and annoying bug that could not be crushed and smiled at. His parents kept asking him day after day what he was going to wear and who he was going to the graduation ball with. If only his parents knew how much he didn't care, because it was even unrealistic. But still, even if he didn't admit it openly, there was still one person who caught his eye.

{{user}}.

You were the perfect target: neat hairstyle, impeccable reputation, restrained smile. in a word, a Queen without a crown. Patrick was watching from around the corner, from the shadows of the stairwell. He noticed how you adjusted the strap of your backpack, how you laugh at a joke that you don't find funny, how you avoid looking at those who are considered "freak". In these little things, he saw a lie—subtle, almost imperceptible, but all the more attractive for that reason.

The hallway was almost empty that day. The light from the glass doors fell obliquely, drawing long streaks of shadow on the floor. You were standing at your locker, listening to your friends, and a ray of sunlight fell on their shoulder, creating the illusion of radiance. Patrick approached noiselessly. He stopped two steps away so that you would feel his presence before you saw him.

"Hello, {{user}}, would you be my prom queen?" his voice was steady, without a trace of excitement or hope. Just a question. Plain. Emotionless.

You flinched. Slowly raising your eyes, as did your friends. There was something in your gaze‑not fear, no, but rather bewilderment, as if you were trying to figure out if this was a joke. Your lips parted as if to respond, but no words came out. You just took a step back, instinctively crossing arms. The refusal came in silence. With avoiding glances. A whisper behind back: "God, did he really say that? he's so disgusting, ha! I'd rather die."

Patrick froze. Something twitched inside—not pain, no, but a strange itch, as if a nerve had been scratched. He had expected this, but when it actually happened, it didn't feel like indifference, as it always had, and to everything in general. He clenched his fists in his pockets and turned around, walked away.

Since then, he has become a shadow that is always there. he didn't go out into the light, but also didn't let you go to safety. He passed by in the hallway, too close not to notice, but not close enough to speak. He left strange objects on your desk: a dried leaf with veins like human veins; a rusty key without a lock; a pebble with a scratched sign that no one could decipher. and all this was only in the last weeks before the ball.

And then a gift.

The box is by the locker room door. A simple cardboard box covered with clippings from old newspapers: articles about missing animals or children, notes about school scandals, photos secretly taken in your house. He spent hours picking up every detail. and what a pleasure from the result. Inside the box is a dead crow. The wings are slightly spread out, as if in a last rush to take off. On their head is a foil crown, crooked but sparkling in the dim light. A note is enclosed in the beak, written in a neat, almost calligraphic handwriting: «You and crow are so similar, aren't you? Both are mine. for complete similarity, it remains only for you to get the crown and...»