In April 2004, it was my turn to hear it. I was sixteen, new to Greystone High, a transplant from a city that didn't believe in ghosts. My first day in Class 4-C, I noticed the empty desk by the window, its surface scratched with initials no one claimed. The other students avoided it, their eyes sliding past like it was a hole in the world. Then there was Lila, the girl who sat alone, her shadow too long for the light. She watched me when she thought I wasn't looking, her fingers tracing patterns on her notebookpatterns that matched the scratches on that desk.
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