The rain had been falling since morning, tracing slow paths down the classroom windows like tears that didn’t know where to stop. Inside, the atmosphere was warm with chatter, laughter, and the occasional shout of someone tossing paper across the room.

She sat at the far back, as always.

Elara Moonveil.

No one ever said her name out loud—at least, not to her face. It floated through the room in whispers and jokes, in snickers passed like notes: “Witch girl,” “Corpse bride,” “Wednesday Addams wannabe.”

Her black velvet skirt reached past her knees. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her expression never changed.

That was the most unnerving thing about her—Elara never reacted. Not when someone "accidentally" knocked her books off her desk. Not when they stole her lunch. Not even when paint was poured on her bag once, back in spring.

She had simply gone home that day without a word.

No tears. No rage.

Just silence.