gravity-barbie
✧ STARS AND RAINDROPS ✧
( n. ) a story about the light we find in the dark, and the storms we weather to find home.
Harrison Lee didn't believe in ghosts. He was a man of logic, a man of literature. But as he stood at the chalkboard, the scent of petrichor drifting through the open door of Room 214, he froze.
In the reflection of the glass, a girl stood in the hallway.
She was a messy picture of trauma. Her hair was jagged, her eyes were too large for her face, and she was wearing a jacket that looked like it had been pulled from a dumpster. But it wasn't her clothes that made the chalk snap in his hand.
It was her face.
It was Emily's nose. Emily's jawline. It was the exact expression Emily had worn the last time he saw her in 1966 - terrified, searching, and desperately lonely.
The girl didn't speak. She just pressed a hand against the glass of the door, her fingers trembling. On her wrist, partially hidden by a fraying yellow scrunchie, were three faded ink numbers, 002.
Then, as quickly as a raindrop disappears into a puddle, she was gone.