3

First period was English class.
The same room, the same teacher, the same view of the parking lot through foggy windows. Everything looked exactly as it did before — except for one thing.
Emily’s seat.

No one sat there anymore. The chair stayed pushed against the desk, untouched. Some students said it was bad luck to move it. Others whispered that sometimes, when the room was quiet, they could hear the sound of a pencil rolling across that desk.
I never dared to check.

“Let’s turn to page forty-two,” Ms. Miller said, pretending her voice didn’t tremble.
We all obeyed, flipping pages, pretending too.
But the space beside me felt too loud, too heavy, like her absence had become its own presence.

When the bell rang, I stood up quickly — but not before noticing something.
On Emily’s desk, faint but visible, there was writing.
Two words, traced in the dust like a memory refusing to fade:
“I’m here.”