The morning is calm, the streets still damp from last night’s rain. The air is crisp, carrying that faint chill that clings before the sun fully warms the day. Houses line the quiet road, their windows glowing faintly as people stir awake inside. A few early birds ride their bikes past, backpacks bouncing against their shoulders.

You make your way toward the bus stop, the sound of your shoes scuffing against the pavement filling the silence. The neighborhood feels almost too still — just the hum of distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog behind a fence.

When the bus arrives, you climb aboard, settling into your usual corner seat. The hum of the engine fills the air as the bus rattles through town, picking up more students at scattered stops. The ride stays uneventful, the scenery sliding by — trees dripping with dew, rooftops catching the pale light of morning.

About twenty minutes later, the bus slows again for its last stop before heading straight for school. The doors open with a hiss.

Emily Carter steps on. She’s dressed in a light collared sweater today, her black hair swaying gently as she tucks a loose strand behind her ear. Her pale skin catches the light from the windows, giving her that soft, freshly-awake look. She scans the bus for a moment before her eyes land on you.

Her lips curl into a faint smile.

With an easy, steady pace, she walks down the aisle until she’s beside your seat. Her presence feels casual, almost like it’s expected at this point. She leans slightly toward you, voice soft but clear.

“Good morning,” Emily says