# Chapter 5
The morning air was crisp as Bobby and I stepped off the porch, the heavy oak door of the Victorian house clicking shut behind us. Walking my little brother to school gave me a brief anchor to reality—his chatter about making new friends and playing kickball at recess was a welcome distraction from the lingering chill of last night's dream.
"Make sure you wait by the main office after the last bell, okay?" I reminded him as we reached the brick courtyard of the elementary school. "I'll meet you right there."
"I know, Krystal!" he said, rolling his eyes with typical younger-brother impatience before darting toward a group of kids near the playground equipment.
Once he was safely through the double doors, I turned toward the expansive grassy field stretching between the two schools. Time was ticking, and I didn't want to be late on my first day. I tightened the straps of my backpack, took a deep breath, and broke into a light jog across the open lawn.
Running felt good; it pushed the residual fog out of my head and replaced it with a sudden surge of adrenaline. But halfway across the empty field, right in the space between elementary domestic safety and the towering high school ahead, the temperature seemed to drop sharply. A strange breeze whipped past, carrying the distinct, faint scent of garden roses—the exact same scent from Kat's memory.
I slowed my pace, looking back over my shoulder toward the Victorian house visible above the tree line. Out here, exposed under the open sky, the feeling of being watched returned tenfold. Whatever was tied to that music box and journal wasn't just staying inside my bedroom—it was following me.
Taking another cold breath, I turned back toward the high school, adjusted my bag, and marched up the concrete steps to face the crowd of unfamiliar faces.
I began my day as the awkward new girl, stopping by the office to get my schedule. My first class of the day was English—great, I love English, I thought to myself. As I walked into the classroom, it was filled with the usual high school morning shenanigans. Teenagers being teenagers, nothing out of the ordinary—even here at Booneville High, it was no different, standing out drastically against a sea of oversized hoodies and crop tops. I headed to the back of the class to sit in the seat nearest to the window.
"Hey," the boy next to me said.
"Hello," I said dryly, keeping my head down.
"Turn to page 43 in your textbook and let's revisit where we left off yesterday," a bald, short, middle-aged man said. I guessed that was the teacher.
I wasn't really listening, just tuning in occasionally in case I happened to be called on.
As the teacher rambled on about how writing poetry involves exploring various poetic forms and techniques, I heard him pose a question to the room: "What is one of the most commonly used techniques?"
Before I could tune back out, his voice sharpened. "You there—Ms. Peek?"
Pulling myself back to reality, I blinked and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Sonnets?"
"Thank you," the teacher said, giving me a pointed look. "And please join the class."
I felt my cheeks burning with embarrassment, but just as I shrank down in my seat, the loud buzz of the bell echoed through the room.
Saved by the bell, I thought with a quiet sigh of relief.