The rain hits hard, relentless, like it’s trying to wash everything away. Your parents’ car pulls up to the cracked stone entrance of the school, then pulls away without a word. You stand alone now, suitcase heavy in one hand, umbrella cold and slick in the other.

The chill settles deep into your bones as you lift the umbrella, the sharp scent of wet earth and old stone filling your nose. Your shoes splash softly on the puddled cobblestones. Around you, the school is quiet—too quiet.

From the corner of your eye, a movement catches your attention.

A figure stands framed in the tall chapel window, watching. Still. Silent. Unblinking.

You don’t look back.

Inside, the hallways seem colder than the rain outside. Students glance up, their eyes sharp and curious, but never friendly. Nobody new ever comes here. Not since forever.

They watch you walk past—umbrella dripping, suitcase scraping the floor—like you don’t belong.

Like you’re a storm they weren’t prepared for.

And somewhere above, that silent figure remains, waiting.

You step through heavy wooden doors into the dim foyer. The air is damp, scented with old stone and candle wax. An older woman, her coat wrapped tight against the cold, eyes you carefully from behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Purpose of your visit?” she asks, voice low, unreadable.