Chapter 20: The Return
The second-period bell had just rung on Monday when the homeroom teacher walked in right after the subject instructor left, holding a printed sheet. His wrinkled face was tight with clear displeasure.
"Hold on a second. The placement test results are in. When I call your name, grab your things and move to Room Three next door."
The classroom fell instantly quiet. A few names were read out, followed by soft murmurs. The full ranking hadn't been posted yet, so plenty of kids were still on edge, unsure whether they'd made the honors track and terrified their hopes would be crushed.
Julian Hayes was one of them. He rarely felt confident about anything and always braced for the worst. Even though he knew his French score had been surprisingly strong, the knot in his chest refused to loosen.
Several top students in their class were called first. When Hannah's name came up, the teacher actually paused to praise her for ranking second in the entire grade. His usual stern expression even softened for a moment as he looked at her.
Hannah didn't look especially happy, though. If anything, she seemed tense. The teacher was reading names by student ID number, and Julian sat right behind her.
The teacher turned to him next, expression still approving. Julian felt the tension in his shoulders ease. "Julian, solid work this time. Keep it up. Once you're in the honors classes, you'll need to push even harder."
His racing heartbeat finally steadied. Julian nodded, promising he'd remember the advice.
The teacher finished the list quickly, then scowled again. Overall results were disappointing—several strong students had bombed, and only a handful from their class were moving up.
"Seating is already assigned. The chart's posted on the wall outside. Move quickly."
With that, the homeroom teacher left. The harsh scrape of desk legs against the floor echoed in both classrooms as chaos erupted. Julian shoved his books into his drawer and flipped his chair onto the desktop.
Vincent Torres clapped him on the shoulder with exaggerated reluctance, playing the part of a reluctant father sending his son off to college. "Study hard over there, kid. Call home if you need anything. I'm getting old—I can't keep up with you hotshots anymore. Take care of yourself."
Julian shot him a glare. "Whatever, old man. I'm out."
The room was a mess. Julian spotted a couple of familiar faces from Room Three already pushing desks in the hallway. He carefully edged past people and slowly maneuvered his own desk out.
It took some effort to reach the new classroom. A small crowd was gathered around the seating chart outside. Julian parked his desk by the door and leaned in to scan for his name.
Not against the wall, but still near the front. Desk mate… Margaret Monroe?
He wasn't sure whether to feel lucky. He'd secretly hoped for another guy—easier to talk freely, fewer boundaries. Margaret was a good friend, but he still had to watch the distance with girls.
In the end, though, it was probably a good thing. Maybe the homeroom teacher had arranged it on purpose. Margaret would be… a great desk mate.
Julian pushed his desk inside. Margaret was already seated, quietly reading, completely unfazed by the noise around her.
Most of the other desks had already been moved in. Julian slotted his into place without much trouble, aligned it, and sat down. Margaret looked up and gave him a soft, serene smile—like a delicate pink camellia blooming through morning mist.
"Looking forward to working with you, new desk mate?"
"You don't need me looking after you. I'm the one who's going to be a pain."
She laughed lightly. "Then I guess I'll just have to take extra good care of you from now on."
"It's not that serious." Julian set his chair down and arranged a few books on the desk. "I owe a lot of my score to your help, by the way. Thanks again."
"No problem. I actually enjoy teaching you."
"Enjoy… teaching me?"
"Mhm. You're… special." Margaret turned back to her book.
Julian didn't quite understand the vague comment. Sometimes her meaning was hard to read behind that calm surface.
He glanced around the room and spotted Hannah in the front row, just a couple seats ahead. She was looking around too. When she turned, she noticed Julian's new spot—and who was sitting beside him.
...
The sleek black McLaren glided into the run-down neighborhood and eased into an open parking spot. The driver's door opened. A woman in a crisp white trench coat stepped out, retrieved a large suitcase from the trunk, and walked into the dim alleyway.
The last rays of sunset filtered through the tangled overhead wires, casting long shadows beneath the yellowing sycamore tree. An elderly woman with gray hair was washing vegetables at her front door. She looked up curiously at the elegantly dressed young woman emerging from the alley.
Snow-pale skin, a beautiful oval face, expensive tailored clothes—everything about her screamed wealth that didn't belong in this old place. Yet her gentle smile felt strangely comforting.
The woman approached. Her clear eyes met the old lady's. Her voice was soft and polite. "Excuse me, ma'am. Does Julian Hayes live around here?"
"Oh, you're looking for little Julian? He's in that building right there." The old woman pointed at the weathered apartment block nearby and gave her a once-over. "You family?"
Isabella Lowell thought for a second and smiled. "I'm… his sister. Thank you, Mrs. Henderson."
She pulled the heavy suitcase toward the building. The old woman frowned, trying to place where she'd seen that face before. Only after Isabella had disappeared inside did it hit her—how had the girl known her last name?
The stairwell was poorly lit, just a few weak bulbs illuminating peeling walls covered in faded flyers. The air smelled stale.
Isabella struggled with the heavy suitcase up to the third floor and stopped in front of a rusty door. The black number plaque hung crookedly, one nail loose and ready to fall.
She fished the key from her pocket, wrestled with the stubborn lock for a long moment, and finally heard the click. The hinges groaned loudly. A thick wave of dust and musty air rushed out, stinging her nose.
She stepped inside and looked around at the furnishings frozen in her memory. A thin layer of dust covered everything, like a bottle of wine that had been buried for years and finally brought back into the light.
Isabella set the suitcase down, walked to the familiar bedroom, and used the second key. Inside was a simple wooden desk and single bed. The red-painted window was shut tight. After all these years, nothing had changed.
She crouched beside the bed, pulled out the small leather case hidden underneath, and opened the rusted latch. Inside lay an old, water-stained diary with curled pages.
Good. Julian probably never found it.
She tucked the diary away safely, left the apartment, and knocked on the neighboring door. No answer. She remembered he was still in school—he was probably still at Riverside High.
Isabella went back inside, slipped off her trench coat, dampened an old rag, and began wiping away years of dust. Before long her back ached and she realized how out of practice she was. She'd let housekeepers handle everything for so long that even simple cleaning felt foreign now.