Dead Man's Handwriting

It started with the sound of chalk grinding itself to dust.

A line finishing on the board, even though nobody saw the teacher's hand move.

Astrae had her knees up on the seat, leaning in, elbows on the desk, eyes flat and unreadable.

Her shadow spilled into Emrys' space.

Dark and thin.

She didn't ask if he wanted her there; she just was, as if this was her desk and he was the visitor.

At the front of the room, Mr. La Mort let the silence build until it was almost comfortable. Then he gestured, slow and soft, to the board.

The handwriting rippled, letters contorting, ink pooling in places it shouldn't.

A sentence formed, more verdict than instruction:

ARCHIVE: STRAY / CODE 2B / UNRESOLVED

The room seemed to shrink around them.

One by one, the scattered pairs of students grew quieter, as if someone was turning down the volume on the whole world.

Astrae's boot tapped against the leg of the desk.

Emrys tried not to look, but the rhythm got into his head—steady, tense.

She looked over, not quite at him.

"You ready?" she said, but it sounded like a joke. Like the punchline was supposed to hurt.

He didn't answer. Didn't nod, didn't smile.

Just let his knuckles press white into the desk until he remembered how to let go.

At the board, the handwriting shuddered. The final word curled in on itself.

A crack split the surface, soundless but sharp.

A line running through not just chalk, but the wall behind it.

Like the universe finding a seam and pulling, just to see what would happen.

Mist bled from the fissure.

Cold, colorless, curling across the tile.

The back row flinched.

Some kids tried to laugh. Nobody moved.

Mr. La Mort's voice was a hush in the bones. "Pair up and approach. Your assignment begins now."

Astrae hopped down, brushing her sleeve against Emrys' arm. Not quite a push, not quite a nudge.

"Let's go," she said.

They walked together. Not side by side, exactly; more like orbiting, finding the empty spaces between elbows and shoulders and breath.

The mist closed over their ankles as they stepped forward, shoes wet with the memory of rain.

Every step made the world quieter, until it was just their footsteps, the scrape and hush of fabric, and the echo of La Mort's voice fading into the walls.

The crack in the board yawned open, mist thickening until it was almost a wall.

Someone behind them coughed, too loud, too desperate.

Astrae looked back, smirked just a little.

"You first, Emrys. Or do you want me to lead?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"Yeah, it does," she said, not waiting for him to answer, stepping through.

He followed. The mist was cold on his face—colder on his hands. He felt a twist in his stomach, like being spun around blindfolded. The world stretched, then contracted.

Then—

—————

He was standing in a room that could have been his, once.

It was almost an apartment. Almost. The shapes were right: window, couch, shelf, kitchen tile.

But the colors bled into each other, gray and blue and yellow, like memory was washing out under bad weather.

The air hummed. Not electricity.

Just a headache, low and steady.

Astrae touched a stack of books on the floor, brushing dust off the spine with one finger.

"This it?" she asked. "Where you lived before?"

He nodded, but the answer felt wrong.

There were picture frames on the wall, but none of the photos showed faces.

Just blurs, just pieces.

A couch with one cushion missing.

Light from the window, but no sun, just a heavy glow that pressed everything flat.

Emrys stepped closer to the window. Outside was nothing. Not fog, not night—just a blank, as if the world forgot to finish.

He touched the glass, expecting it to be cold. It was warm, almost sticky.

Astrae moved with him, silent except for her boots. "It's adapting," she said. "You feel it?"

He nodded, still facing the glass.

The board's handwriting crawled up the wall, this time on faded wallpaper above the couch.

Observe each other's absence.

Inadequate honesty: Retry.

Astrae rolled her eyes, but Emrys felt the knot tighten in his chest. He glanced over at her, waiting.

She scanned the room, eyes moving too fast.

"You're missing something," she said. "Or a lot of things. Feels like every memory in here tried to run."

He let his hand fall from the window.

"That's the point."

"Yeah?" she said, voice neutral. "So tell me. What hurts most, right now?"

He shrugged. "All of it."

The board flickered, words shifting:

Inadequate vulnerability: Retry.

Astrae let out a sharp breath—almost a laugh. "The Pale doesn't want poetry, Emrys. It wants blood. Try again."

He glanced at the carpet. The stain by the door wasn't real, but it looked familiar—a dark, water-shaped patch that spread further the longer he looked.

He closed his eyes. "My sister's voice," he said. "It's missing. She's not here. She's never here."

Astrae nodded, no judgment. "Do you know why?"

He wanted to look away, but the room wouldn't let him. "Because I left first."

The board glowed, faint approval:

Honesty: Acceptable.

Mutual observation: Pending.

Astrae crossed the room, trailing her hand along the wall, stopping where the light thinned to nothing.

There was a place there. A bruise in the paint, like someone had pressed a forehead to it, over and over. She stood in the darkness, silent.

He followed her. "Your turn," he said, quieter.

She tapped the spot, her fingernail catching. "Someone died in my memory too," she said. "But the Pale's not showing you her face. It's showing you the shape I left in her place."

He didn't understand, but he listened. Astrae's voice stayed flat, but her hand curled tight at her side.

"I used to wait by the window," she said. "I'd stare out for hours, even after everyone else forgot. The day she didn't come back, I stopped looking. That was the first thing I let the world take."

She looked at him, and for the first time he saw something brittle in her eyes.

Emrys didn't know what to say. He tried, but the words caught.

The board crawled again, this time across the ceiling:

Mutual vulnerability: Unsatisfactory. Retry.

Astrae snorted. "This place is a bitch, huh?"

He half-smiled. "Yeah."

She moved closer, close enough that he could see the bruise under her left eye—old, healed, but real. "You want to get out of here?" she asked, soft.

He nodded.

"Then you're going to have to let it in," she said. "I'll go first."

Astrae pressed her palm to the wall. The paint rippled under her hand. A door appeared—a door neither of them had seen, painted the same sick yellow as the rest. She glanced at him, then pushed it open.

Inside, the room was smaller, crowded with boxes. In one corner, a voicemail machine blinked red. Emrys stopped in the doorway.

Astrae nodded at the machine. "This is it, isn't it?"

He shook his head, then nodded. "I never listened to it."

"Why not?"

He shrugged, hands shaking a little. "I thought it would make it real."

She stepped past him, boots silent now. She pressed the PLAY button.

The room held its breath.

The voice that came through was younger than he remembered, lighter, with static at the edges.

"Hey, Emrys. It's me. I don't know if you'll ever check this, but… I love you. Don't forget. Not everything is your fault, okay? Call me back. Please."

The words crackled. The machine clicked off. The silence that followed felt old, heavy, unbreakable.

Emrys pressed his fist to his mouth, swallowing whatever he wanted to say.

Astrae didn't fill the gap. She just watched him, eyes soft.

The board wrote, slowly:

Trauma Echo Unlocked.

Something cold swept through the room. The air snapped sharp. Shadows twisted in the corners, then peeled themselves away from the walls, flickering, almost human.

Astrae stepped between Emrys and the echoes—not as a shield, but as a witness.

"You left this locked in your bones," she said. "The Pale cracked the door."

He shook his head, tears starting, not loud. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can," she said, not raising her voice. "You just have to stand still and let it happen."

He couldn't move. He didn't move.

The shadows swirled, growing louder, voices not-quite voices. The message played again, warped, stretching out the last word.

Emrys finally let himself listen.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I should've answered."

The air softened. The shadows ebbed. The voicemail light stopped blinking.

Astrae reached for his shoulder, just enough pressure to keep him upright.

"You heard it. That's enough," she said.

He nodded, wiping his eyes. "Thanks."

The board glowed, then faded:

Archive Response Logged.

Grade: Satisfactory.

—————

They were standing in the classroom again. Desks. Chalk dust. Astrae at his side.

The world felt thinner, but not in a dangerous way. Just stretched out, like the first deep breath after a panic.

Astrae shook out her shoulders, glancing at him. "Next time," she said, voice a little rough, "I pick the memory."

She started to walk away, then paused. "You did alright, Emrys. For a ghost."

She didn't look back.

He stood there, alone for a second. His shadow flickered at his feet—just for a moment, the shape of the Scar bending with it.

He let out a breath.

The room was silent, not empty.

Maybe, for once, the world was listening.

He looked at the board.

It all made sense.

"Mr La Mort…"

"Yes, young Katsunori?"

"The Dead Man's Handwriting reads—

He who knows all the answers has not been asked all the questions.

— Confucius

…

"Very good, Katsunori. You're the first two to find the answer this fast in… quite possibly a couple decades."