The classroom smelled faintly of pencil shavings, damp coats, and forgotten lunches. Rain streaked down the windows in crooked lines, casting watery shadows on the floor. Elian Marek sat in his usual spot—far left, second row from the back, by the radiator that never worked. His hood was down today, his hair falling in damp black strands over his pale face, and his hands moved silently across his sketchbook.

He barely noticed the scrape of chairs and muttering until the door creaked open.

“Alright, everyone, quiet down,” said Mr. Darnell, the literature teacher. His voice had the dry tone of someone used to being ignored. “We’ve got a new student today.”

Every head turned.

Elian looked up, too.

And that’s when she walked in.

She didn’t stumble. She didn’t shrink. She walked in like sunlight breaking through stormclouds. Her hair was the first thing anyone saw—long, thick waves of red-orange fire pulled into two loose buns on top of her head, the rest cascading down like wild ivy. She wore a gray off-the-shoulder top that matched the rainy day but not her presence, and around her neck, a thin black choker and a small pink heart necklace. Freckles scattered across her pale face like stardust. Her eyes—soft blue, like morning sky after snow—scanned the room with quiet curiosity.

“This is Iris Rowe,” Mr. Darnell said, adjusting his glasses. “Just transferred here from North Bay. Iris, pick any seat you like.”

The invitation rang like a bell. Every student perked up.

The popular table stirred immediately—whispers, nudges, practiced smiles. Cody, the soccer team captain, gestured dramatically to the empty chair beside him. “You can sit here,” he said, flashing teeth that had impressed dozens of girls already this year.

Another boy, Julian, leaned forward. “Right here’s good too, if you want someone smart to cheat off of,” he winked.

Iris paused at the front of the room, lips parted just slightly. She blinked once, slowly.

Then she started walking.

Not toward them.

Not toward the glittering center of social gravity.

She walked down the aisle, straight past the rows of chatter and stares, her boots clicking softly on the floor. And then—she stopped beside Elian’s desk.

He froze. His pencil paused mid-line, graphite hovering above paper.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked gently, her voice quiet but clear, like wind through pine trees.

Elian looked up at her, unsure if she was serious. No one ever chose to sit with him. Not unless it was by force or mistake. He blinked once, then slowly shook his head.

She smiled.

And she sat.

The room was holding its breath. Whispers ignited behind them like dry leaves catching flame.

Iris turned to Elian, tilting her head just slightly. “I’m Iris,” she said again, softer this time, as if she knew he needed the words to land with less weight.

Elian stared at her. Then, carefully, he raised his hands and signed.

E-L-I-A-N.

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise—but not confusion.

A slow, warm smile stretched across her lips. “Elian,” she said aloud, pronouncing it perfectly. “That’s a nice name.”

He blinked again. People never got it right the first time. She had.

“I know a bit of sign,” she added, casually. “My cousin's deaf. I'm not fluent or anything—but I get by.”

Then she did something strange. She didn’t try to ask him why he didn’t speak. She didn’t flinch or fill the silence with noise. She just turned back toward the front of the class as Mr. Darnell began lecturing again, letting her shoulder brush just barely against Elian’s. Like she was saying: I’m here. I see you. And I’m staying.

The whispers behind them faded. Confused. Frustrated.

Elian didn’t look at them.

He just stared down at the half-finished sketch on his page—a girl with fire-colored hair standing in the middle of a rainy classroom.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a ghost.