You were sick because you had been careless. A night walk in the rain without a coat, damp clothes clinging to your skin until dawn. Or perhaps it was the swamp water you swallowed on a dare, thick with things that should never touch a body. Either way, fever claimed you quickly, forcing you to stay in your dorm, curtains drawn, sheets damp with sweat.

Most students might not have noticed you were missing after only a day. Classes were busy, distractions endless. But Agnes noticed. Of course she did.

It should have been no surprise how curious she was. A Vanisher who moved unseen, who collected secrets like moths in a jar, would always notice the absence of movement. A door unopened. A plate of food untouched.

What was strange—what bordered on unnatural—was how a thirteen-year-old girl took it upon herself to care for you. She did not fetch a teacher. She did not tell the nurse. She simply came into your room and sat in the chair by your bed, folding herself there like a shadow that refused to move.

You blinked awake, there she was. Sitting stiffly in the chair beside your bed, knees drawn up, her wide eyes fixed on you like she was watching for any sign you might vanish.

“Agnes,” your voice rasped, “you’ll get in trouble if you miss another class.”

“I do not care,” she said quickly. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her skirt, her shoulders tense.

You tried to laugh but it came out as a cough. “You should care.”

She leaned forward, “You’re the only person who would notice if I was gone. So I will notice if you are.”