She was only 8 years old.
8 years old and she saw her mother get killed by a drive by. From that day poor Nova has been traumatized and has been to foster home to foster home. At the age of 12, Nova has anger and trust issues, never letting anyo...
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THIRD
The world felt wrong the next morning.
Not in a way anyone else would notice — not the teachers, not the students, not even the boys when they laughed and nudged her shoulder in the hall. But Nova felt it. That subtle shift in the air, that quiet weight pressing against her chest.
Like something was waiting for her.
The laughter around her echoed too loudly. The hum of the hallway lights buzzed too sharply. Every whisper turned into something else — something sinister — until it almost sounded like his voice.
"Butterfly..."
Her head snapped up.
The hallway was empty.
Only the distant chatter of a few students remained as they turned the corner.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She swallowed hard, blinking, trying to convince herself she hadn't heard that. Just her imagination. Just stress.
But she could still feel it — the phantom of his voice curling around her ear.
You thought you could forget me, didn't you?
Nova clutched the strap of her bag so tight her knuckles turned white. She forced herself to breathe, forced herself to move. She walked faster. Then faster still. Until her legs carried her straight out the school doors the moment the bell rang.
By the time she got home, the sun was already dipping low.
Her body felt heavy, like she was walking through fog. The others were somewhere downstairs — she could hear muffled conversation, maybe music. But she didn't stop. Didn't talk to anyone. Didn't want to.
Her steps quickened up the stairs.
Halfway down the hall, she froze.
Something — no, someone — whispered her name.
"Nova..."
The sound was soft, distant, but unmistakable. His voice.
Her blood turned to ice. She turned sharply, scanning the hallway. Empty. The air felt colder here, like it had teeth. Her breath hitched as she backed toward her room.
It's not real. He's not here. He can't be.
Still, the whisper followed. Faint, drawn out — like a cruel echo bouncing off the walls.
"You can't hide from me, butterfly."
Her chest constricted. She stumbled into her room, slamming the door shut behind her.
Her hands trembled as she pressed her back against it, trying to catch her breath. Nothing. No footsteps. No shadow under the door.
