Hale didn't remember packing anything different. But when he opened his backpack during lunch, tucked between his notebooks and a half-eaten apple, was a sketchbook he'd never seen before.
It was old. Older than it had any right to be. The cover was cracked, soft like worn leather, edges curling as if it had lived too many lives. It smelled faintly of charcoal and something else—ash, maybe. Or time.
He opened it.
His breath caught.
Pages and pages of drawings stared back. Not just random sketches—but scenes. Detailed, intimate snapshots of his life. His room. His hallway. The art class. His desk. Even the smudge of ink he always left near the corner.
And the people.
Barney, mid-laugh. Ivy, her head tilted the way it always was when she listened too closely. Himself—drawn dozens of times, in expressions he didn't recognize. Fear. Guilt. Grief.
Each one signed neatly: H. Hale.
But he didn't draw any of this.
He turned a page.
It showed the art classroom.
Ivy.
She was slumped forward across her sketchpad. A smear of blood crawled beneath her fingertips. Her eyes were open but unfocused, staring through the table. In Hale's drawn hand: a pencil. Red-tipped.
His throat closed.
He turned the page slowly.
Tomorrow's date.
Signed again in the corner: H. Hale.
He closed the book. The room didn't feel like a cafeteria anymore. It felt like a trap. A stage built for a scene already rehearsed.
He looked around.
Barney was laughing in the distance.
Hale didn't hear him.
Because suddenly, he wasn't afraid of what might happen tomorrow.
He was afraid it had already happened before.