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The school gym had never looked emptier-even packed full of people.
The bleachers groaned under the weight of forced silence. Students sat shoulder to
shoulder, slouched and barely pretending to listen. Some cried. Most scrolled. Barry sat
near the middle, flanked by blank faces and knees bouncing in boredom. The air smelled
like varnish and dusted deodorant, like it always did when adults tried to talk about grief.
Up on the stage, the principal was halfway through his second speech of the morning,
voice calm and polished like a documentary narrator.
"-in honor of Sadie Langford, who will be missed dearly by all of us here at Calypso
Ridge."
Barry stared at the two empty folding chairs placed behind the principal's podium.
One was for Sadie.
The other... no one had mentioned.
"We recognize this is a painful time," the principal continued. "That there may be...
emotions. That we may feel confused, even overwhelmed. Please know our counselors
are available at all times. In fact, let's thank Ms. Rayner for putting together today's
memorial presentation-"
Applause. Polite, flat, misaligned.
Barry glanced to his left. The girl beside him was crying quietly into a folded-up hoodie
sleeve. She had never spoken to Sadie once.
To his right, a senior named Troy was texting with his phone half-hidden inside a biology
book. He was smiling.
The principal gestured behind him as the screen lit up with a PowerPoint slide.
"Sadie, you were a bright spark in our community..."
The slide read:
> In Memory of Sasha Langford
Barry's breath caught.
He blinked, leaned forward. The next slide had her photo.
It was definitely Sadie.
But the text still read Sasha.
He turned to look around. No one else reacted. Not even a whisper.
He glanced at the teachers. Not a single face shifted. Just nodding. Approving.
Mourning-by-committee.
When he looked back at the stage, the chairs had been rearranged.
Now only one empty chair remained.
---
Outside, after the assembly, the parking lot buzzed like a hive shaken from sleep.
"That was... uncomfortably rehearsed," Brighton said, appearing at Barry's side like a
glitch in the crowd. His hood was up, sleeves rolled, lollipop half-unwrapped in one hand.
Barry said nothing.
"Did you see the typo?" Brighton asked. "Sasha?"
Barry looked at him, surprised.
"You noticed?"
"You think I'd miss something weird? That's my whole brand." Brighton smirked. Then
his expression faded. "But you didn't see the other thing."
"What other thing?"
Brighton leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"Two chairs were up there. Then one. Then none."
Barry frowned. "What do you mean none?"
Brighton blinked. "At the end. They were gone. Like they'd never been up there at all."
---
Barry didn't speak for a while.
They walked to the front sidewalk. Kids peeled off in every direction. The overcast sky pressed low over the school like a lid on a jar. Barry pulled his phone from his hoodie
pocket.
Still had the picture of the flyer.
Still had the match screen saved.
Still had the notes from Eliah.
Still had the...
His phone rebooted in his hand.
Just flickered, vibrated, and restarted.
"Brighton."
"Yeah?"
Barry turned the screen to him. The home screen blinked on-completely reset. The
background had changed. It was just solid gray now, with one line of text centered in white:
> "YOU AREN'T SUPPOSED TO REMEMBER THIS."
Brighton went pale.
"Did you install anything?"
Barry didn't answer. His heart was a drum in his throat.
There was one app left.
A new one.
No icon. No name.
Just a small symbol:
A circle, with a vertical line running through it.
Like a broken clock. He didn't even know why they bothered him.
Maybe because everything lately felt broken - classes, teachers, Barry's silences, even the weather. The clouds hung too low over Calypso Ridge, like the sky was tired of pretending to be anything else.

When the last bell rang, Barry said he had something to check in the library. Brighton didn't ask what; Barry always had something lately. Brighton just pocketed his earbuds and left through the east gate, the one that cut past the construction site and the rows of identical houses that always smelled faintly like detergent and rain.