The school smelled like pencil shavings, mop water, and something vaguely fried. Mia slipped through the front doors just before the bell, her grip firm on a laminated hall pass she'd forged the night before. The edges were worn to look handled. Her excuse was simple: lost-and-found delivery. A hoodie, supposedly left behind.
The hallway swallowed her instantly—lockers clanged shut, sneakers squeaked, and voices bounced against the tile floors in a chorus of teenage chaos. She kept her head down, her steps purposeful, weaving between clusters of students.
Classrooms flashed by: Room 203, 204, 205. She noted the math wing signage and frowned. Sarah's schedule said language block should be here. She'd misread the blueprint.
Backtrack.
She turned quickly, nearly bumping into a lanky boy cradling a saxophone case. "Sorry," he mumbled. Mia nodded and pressed on.
A janitor leaned on his mop at the corridor junction, watching her.
Keep walking.
She adjusted her pace, feigning casual. Her fingers brushed the folded page in her pocket—Sarah's class map. She didn't dare unfold it now.
Inside Room 108, a teacher launched into a grammar drill. Mia passed by slowly enough to catch Sarah's name during roll call.
Target acquired.
She noted the room number, student count, seating layout. Pale green walls, faded motivational posters, one window cracked open a sliver. The scent of chalk dust and marker ink.
Next: schedule confirmation. She rounded the stairwell into a quieter hall where a bulletin board displayed daily timetables. She scanned for Sarah's section.
Third period: English.
Fourth: History.
Fifth: Geometry.
She copied them into her notebook, careful not to smudge the ink.
A sharp déjà vu hit her like a shove. The hallway. The posters. Even the way light pooled on the linoleum.
She froze.
She had been here before.
Or thought she had.
She marked it immediately.
Blur Echo #2
Same intensity. Same disconnect.
Her pen hesitated. She glanced to her right.
The janitor was still watching. He took a step forward.
Mia ducked into the next hall, turning a blind corner into a sea of lockers. Bell.
The corridor erupted.
Doors flew open. Students spilled out. The tide of movement masked her retreat. She rode it, head low, one hand steady on her notebook.
And then she saw them.
Two hall monitors.
Identical red sashes.
Identical braids.
One said, "North stairwell."
The other said, "South exit."
Mia stared.
The same girl. Twice. Blink and you'd miss it.
TimeRipple.
It was strengthening.
She scribbled into her notebook, breath shallow:
Double Visual Anomaly. Location: 2nd floor. Monitors conflicting. Confirmed deviation.
She ducked into the bathroom to breathe.
Flickering light.
Dusty sink.
Her reflection wavered.
She splashed her face. Waited. Waited.
The echo didn't leave.
It stayed at the edges of her vision, like a flicker behind glass. Her hand shook as she reached into her coat pocket for a sugar packet. She tore it open and downed it dry, hoping the sharp taste would anchor her.
Her journal sat open on the sink counter. She traced the last line she'd written with her fingertip. The ink was still wet.
Back in the hallway, noise filtered in again. The bell had rung. Students now shifted between lockers and classrooms. The light over her flickered once more.
Mia stepped into the corridor.
The monitors were gone.
Only one remained now—the girl with the braid. No sash. She looked different.
Mia blinked.
The girl nodded to her. "You lost?"
"No. Just dropping something off," Mia replied.
The girl didn't question it.
Mia walked away, her spine tingling.
She passed the art room, its door propped open. Inside, a student sprayed sealant on a row of painted clay tiles. A burst of aerosol caught the fluorescent light.
She moved past quickly, then stopped. Turned back. One tile near the door looked eerily familiar—a sunburst. The same pattern from the schoolyard mural.
Her hand trembled as she wrote:
Symbol Duplication? Art dept linked to mural? Unverified link.
The janitor reappeared at the hallway's far end.
Mia turned and headed toward the stairwell. This time, she chose north.
Every step down echoed louder than it should have. She hugged the rail. At the bottom, she paused.
Someone had left a backpack on the floor, right in the middle of the path.
She picked it up and leaned it gently against the wall. Another name tag. Jenny's.
She logged that too.
Then kept walking.
Back out into the parking lot, the air tasted different. Cold. Clean. Unstable.
Her fingers tightened on the journal.
And she whispered to herself, just once:
"Time is noticing."