Becky didn't drink the wine.
She didn't touch the glass. Didn't erase the writing. She just walked out of Room 27, shut the door, and promised herself she'd never return.
But the silence followed her.
At first, it was in the hallways. A strange hush, like her footsteps were the only ones that dared exist. Then in the bus ride home, where even the usual honking, laughing, and screeching of brakes faded into an unnatural quiet.
And finally, in her house.
Her parents talked, but their voices seemed to dip beneath the surface, like she was underwater. The clinking of utensils. The murmur of the television. All of it faded the moment she stepped into the room.
The silence wanted her alone.
That night, she turned on her lamp, shut all the windows, locked the door, and buried herself under her blanket.
But just past 2 a.m., she woke up.
The butterflies were back
—one resting on her mirror, the other circling the ceiling slowly like a ghost in flight. Her windows were closed. But they were inside.
And on her desk: a familiar glass.
Filled with red liquid.
No table this time. No chalk. No voices.
Just a note. Handwritten. Curved and strange:
"Refusing once is fair. Twice… rude."
Becky stepped back, her throat dry.
She wasn't dreaming.
Not anymore.