The art room smelled like pencil shavings and faint turpentine. Hale sat near the far window, his sketchbook open, a blank page staring back at him. Ivy hadn't shown up yet.
He tapped his pencil against the paper.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"You waiting for your muse or the apocalypse?"
Barney's voice. Back to normal—loud, sarcastic, sharp. But beneath it, something... off. Like a laugh with a missing breath.
Hale glanced over. "You're late."
Barney smirked. "Time's a social construct. Ask me again after 3:12."
Hale's pencil stopped. His breath caught.
Barney raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"What did you just say?"
"I said I'm a time traveler, obviously. Going back to when cafeterias served decent pizza." He laughed like always. But it echoed strangely—like the room didn't want to hold the sound.
Hale studied Barney's face. Normal. Too normal.
Barney noticed. "Dude, you look like you've seen a ghost. Or worse—Ms. Carver in gym shorts."
Then, quieter, almost muttered:
"Hope this version of you lasts longer."
Hale froze. "What?"
Barney blinked. "What?"
He shook his head, grinning again like nothing happened. Hale turned back to his sketchbook.
Only—
It wasn't blank anymore.
The page now held a detailed drawing. Not his style. Not even his pencil.
It was the mark. His mark. The one carved into his chest. Inked in black charcoal, exact and perfect.
At the bottom, in neat cursive: H. Hale
The date: Tomorrow.
He blinked.
Gone.
The page was blank again.
Later that day, Ivy finally arrived—quiet, as always. She sat down beside him in the art room without a word.
They were told to sketch something abstract. Emotions, shapes, dreams. The usual art-teacher vagueness.
Around them, the other students moved like shadows—blurred background noise, their chatter fading like radio static.
Hale started shading a half-circle. Then a jagged line. Then... it just flowed.
By the time he looked up, Ivy was staring at his page.
Her own sketch mirrored his.
Not copied—mirrored. Same shapes, but inverted. Opposite strokes. Like a reflection in cracked glass.
They looked at each other.
No one spoke.
Then Ivy whispered, "This feels familiar."
Hale frowned. "What does?"
"This drawing. You. This... moment. I don't know."
That night, Hale couldn't sleep.
He sat at his desk, sketchbook closed, a single sticky note pressed between the pages:
You weren't supposed to be here.
He didn't remember writing it.
But it was in his handwriting.
His reflection in the window stared back—off somehow.
Slower than his real movement. Holding something. A pencil?
No.
A blade.
Hale spun around.
Nothing behind him.
He looked back at the window.
Now it was just him.
But the reflection smiled first