Epilogue

It’s strange how silence changes after the truth comes out.
It used to feel heavy, suffocating — like a weight pressing on my chest.
Now it feels different. Lighter. Honest.
The halls of Ridgeview High are still quiet, but the whispers have stopped.

Sometimes, when I pass the science wing, I still smell the faint trace of smoke.
It doesn’t scare me anymore.
It reminds me that the past is real — that what we lost mattered.
And that remembering is its own kind of forgiveness.

Noah transferred to another school.
He said he couldn’t stay, not with all the memories.
I understand. But I stayed.
Because someone has to make sure the story doesn’t fade into rumor again.

Emily’s locker is still there.
The flowers are gone now, but sometimes, when the sunlight hits it just right,
you can see words scratched faintly into the metal —
“Thank you.”

Maybe ghosts never really leave.
Maybe they just become part of us — the voice that warns, the memory that stays,
the whisper that reminds us to live better than we did before.
And maybe that’s not haunting.
Maybe that’s healing.