Chapter 12: A Memory Out of Place

The next day.

The storm had passed, but the sky looked bruised.

Pale clouds dragged themselves across a sickly orange morning, and everything smelled like metal.

Hale barely spoke to anyone.

He didn't know how.

His thoughts were too loud. His body, too quiet.

The sketch of the keyhole lingered in his mind like a whisper that wouldn't stop.

He tried to remember what he'd drawn before—but every attempt to recall it left a blankness, like trying to remember a dream after it slipped away.

Art class again.

The girl was there.

Still no name. Still no words.

But when Hale walked in, she looked up this time. Just for a second.

Then turned back to her paper.

They didn't speak.

They just drew.

But the atmosphere felt charged—like static before a lightning strike.

Hale wasn't even sure he was choosing what to draw anymore. His hand moved like it remembered something he didn't.

When class ended, Hale packed up quickly, ready to bolt—

"Hey," she said suddenly.

Hale froze. Looked over his shoulder.

She didn't meet his eyes. Just pointed at his sketchpad.

"You keep drawing the same thing."

Hale blinked. "What?"

"That… door. Or hole. Whatever it is. You drew it yesterday, too."

He didn't answer.

Because he hadn't remembered drawing it at all.

In fact, he'd forgotten most of yesterday.

Even now, details slipped from his mind like water through fingers.

Lunch.

Barney was back in full force.

He threw an apple across the cafeteria like it was a grenade, yelled something about how "oranges are the real threat," and made a fart noise with his straw.

"If I get detention again, it's technically your fault," he told Hale.

Hale raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"Because you didn't stop me. Friendship works both ways, man."

Then he leaned in and grinned.

"Anyway, this'll all reset at 3:12 tonight, right?"

Hale froze.

The tray in his hand rattled slightly.

Barney just laughed and bit into his sandwich like nothing happened.

Just a joke.

Right?

Except... Hale wasn't sure anymore.

Later that day.

Hale stood in front of his locker.

The code escaped him.

He stared at the lock like it belonged to someone else.

Three numbers.

Three rotations.

But none of them worked.

He'd used this locker all year.

Why couldn't he remember?

Library.

Rain tapped on the high glass dome. A soft, irritating rhythm.

He flipped open his sketchbook.

Paused.

It wasn't a sketch.

It was writing.

His own handwriting.

The same line, written again and again down the page:

"You weren't supposed to be here."

He turned the page. Another. Another.

All the same.

He didn't remember writing any of it.

His fingers trembled as he reached into his backpack, searching for anything else—something to prove he wasn't losing it.

That's when he found it.

A folded piece of paper. Crumpled, like it had been there for days.

He opened it slowly.

It was a sketch.

The mark on his chest.

Drawn in perfect detail.

The shading. The curve. The way it pulsed with something hidden.

At the bottom was a signature.

H. Hale

And the date?

Tomorrow's.

Hale stared at the drawing.

His breath caught.

Something was unraveling.

And he didn't know if it was the world—

—or just him.