CHAPTER 2: WHAT THE CAMERAS DIDN’T SEE
CHAPTER 2: WHAT THE CAMERAS DIDN’T SEE
The principal burst into the classroom minutes later, followed by security.
But something was wrong.
None of the hallway cameras had footage of the boy entering.
Not today.
Not ever.
“We checked the system,” the principal whispered, pale. “He… he’s not registered in any class roster.”
The father turned sharply.
“That’s impossible.”
The teacher shook her head quickly.
“I’ve seen him for months. He sits there every day.”
Everyone turned toward the back row.
Empty.
The boy was gone.
Only a faint warmth remained on the chair.
And under it—
A folded paper.
The father picked it up.
His hands hesitated for the first time.
He opened it.
Inside was a single line:
“You already know who I am. You just don’t want to remember.”
The teacher stepped closer, reading over his shoulder.
Her face drained of color.
“That handwriting…” she whispered.
The father’s jaw tightened.
Because somewhere buried in his memory—
He recognized it too.
Suddenly, the girl screamed.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just one sharp breath of terror.
“He’s outside.”
Everyone turned toward the window.
The boy stood in the courtyard.
May you like
Looking up.
Waiting.
