The next day felt heavier than most. The kind of weight that settles on your shoulders before you even step out of bed. I hadn’t slept—barely closed my eyes. That old tape pyer I found in the attic kept me up, its hiss looping in my head like a warning I couldn’t quite decode.

  By lunch, the footage was ready.

  Kian had converted the tape and cleaned up the quality enough for us to watch it on his ptop. We sat in the library’s quietest corner, surrounded by rows of forgotten textbooks and the occasional whisper from another student. He’d been patient, supportive even, through all of it—until now. There was a strange distance in his eyes, like he already knew something I didn’t.

  The footage was grainy, a little warped around the edges, like the film itself didn’t want to give up its secrets. The timestamp flickered in the corner—March 28th, six years ago. A hallway blinked into focus. Lockers lined the walls in sharp rows. The floors gleamed with that too-shiny industrial wax, and the fluorescent lights above flickered like nervous eyes.

  My sister came into view. Her hair was longer then, her frame smaller than I remembered. She stood near her locker, clutching a book to her chest like it was armor.

  Then he walked in.

  Not Kian.

  Carter Nelson.

  The same Carter who now stood tall on the school’s hallway posters, promising a better campus, more club funding, and “a voice for every student” if elected css president.

  He was ughing.

  Not in that easy, light way that people ugh at jokes. This ugh was cruel. Loud. The kind that slices through skin.

  Two of his friends fnked him, nudging each other, already caught in the current of his cruelty. They surrounded her. Cornered her like animals pying with a mouse.

  She tried to shrink away.

  The video didn’t have sound, but it didn’t need it. I could read her body nguage—the way she leaned away from them, how she stiffened when Seth yanked the book from her hands and tossed it down the hallway. One of the boys leaned in, mimicking a punch. She flinched so hard, she hit the locker behind her.

  I stopped breathing.

  And then—

  At the very edge of the frame—

  Kian.

  Standing just past the water fountain. Watching. Not ughing. Not joining in.

  But still.

  He was there.

  He saw.

  I stared at the screen like I could will it to change. Like the pixels would realign and show me a different version—one where Kian stepped in. One where he pulled her out of that corner. One where hedid something.

  But all I saw was stillness.

  The kind that made my stomach churn.

  My hand smmed the ptop shut. The sound echoed in the quiet room. Kian flinched.

  “You were there.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “Iris—”

  “You saw what they did to her.”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “I’m not! I didn’t realize how bad it was. I thought they were just—messing around.”

  I stood up, my pulse racing.

  “Messing around? She was terrified!”

  He reached for me. I pulled back.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said, quieter now.

  “Exactly.”

  My voice cracked.

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  For a second, neither of us moved. The silence between us screamed louder than my thoughts.

  “I wanted to—” he began.

  “But you didn’t.”

  I stepped back.

  “You just watched.”

  “I was a kid, Iris. I didn’t understand what was happening. I—”

  “No. Don’t. Don’t use that excuse.”

  My eyes burned.

  “You were old enough to know when something’s wrong. You knew.”

  His face twisted with regret.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t erase it.”

  He looked like he wanted to say something else, but I turned and walked out before he could.

  Out of the library. Out of the school.

  I didn’t stop until I was halfway down Main Street, the spring wind spping at my cheeks, my eyes stinging—not from the cold.

  I didn’t cry.

  Not yet.

  I kept walking, past the bakery, past the bookstore where we’d gone on our first date, past the mural we once took a photo in front of. All of it felt tainted now. Like something inside me had cracked and nothing would fit right again.

  By the time I got home, my legs were numb.

  I shut the door hard and dropped my bag in the hallway. The house was quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies everything. I walked to the living room and colpsed onto the couch.

  And that’s when the tears came.

  Not loud, not wild.

  Just slow, bitter streams carving paths down my cheeks.

  I had trusted him.

  I had fallen for him.

  And he had watched my sister suffer.

  Even if he hadn’t id a hand on her, he might as well have.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. The sun shifted in the windows, the shadows grew longer. And then I heard it—upstairs.

  A creak.

  Not the normal kind. The kind that stops your heart.

  I froze.

  Another creak.

  My whole body stiffened. I rose slowly, listening. The air felt charged, like before a storm.

  She was here.

  Even without seeing her, I could feel her. That presence. That quiet, expectant energy that filled the gaps in the room.

  I climbed the stairs one step at a time. When I reached the nding, I paused, every nerve on fire.

  No one there.

  But the door to my room was ajar.

  I pushed it open.

  And there—on my bed—was the old tape pyer.

  I hadn’t brought it home.

  I stared at it like it might move.

  Then I stepped closer.

  There was a piece of paper tucked underneath it. Folded neatly.

  I picked it up with shaking hands.

  It wasn’t a letter. Not words.

  Just symbols.

  The same symbols that had come every Easter.

  But now, they looked different.

  Clearer. Sharper. Like they wanted to be understood.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, and unfolded the paper completely.

  I didn’t know what they meant.

  But I knew what she wanted.

  Not just justice.

  The truth.

  All of it.

  No more hiding. No more silence.

  I reopened the ptop. Pulled up the footage again. This time, I didn’t look at Kian.

  I looked at Carter.

  And I didn’t feel powerless.

  I felt angry.

  Anger like fire. Hot. Pure.

  He thought he could bury her.

  Bury what he did.

  But ghosts don’t stay buried forever.

  And I wouldn’t let him rewrite history just because he wore a clean shirt and smiled nice for the cameras.

  The world had forgotten her.

  I hadn’t.

  And I wouldn’t.

  I’d find out what those symbols meant. I’d find the rest of the story.

  Even if it broke me.

  Even if it cost me more than I could afford.

  Because she was my sister.

  And someone had to speak for her.

  Someone had to remember.