The Girl Who Remembers

The shrill clang of the school bell scattered the silence like broken glass. Evelyn flinched, the sound too sharp in the cramped classroom. Students spilled in, their voices loud and restless, a sudden tide that made her lose sight of Clara.

By the time Evelyn blinked through the commotion, the girl’s notebook was closed, her hands folded neatly on the desk. Clara looked like any other student—quiet, perhaps shy—but Evelyn knew better. The image lingered in her mind: her own figure, captured in graphite two weeks before she had even arrived.

The hair along her arms prickled.

“Good morning,” Evelyn said, her voice steady though her chest felt tight. She forced a smile, trying to set the tone. “I’m Miss Hale, your new teacher. We’re going to start fresh this year.”

The students muttered polite hellos, some curious, some indifferent. Evelyn guided them through introductions, jotting names onto the attendance sheet. Clara answered when called—“Clara Jennings, fifteen”—but her voice was soft, as though she were conserving it.

The class went through the motions of the day: simple exercises, a short reading passage, group work. Normal, ordinary. Exactly what Evelyn had expected when she decided to come here. And yet, every time her eyes drifted toward Clara, she found the girl watching her—not openly, but in the way of someone listening for a hidden sound.

By lunchtime, Evelyn’s nerves were frayed.

When the students filed out, she sank into her chair. The classroom emptied except for Clara, who lingered at the back.

“You should eat,” Evelyn said, trying for casual.

Clara didn’t move. “You don’t remember yet.”

Evelyn’s mouth went dry. “Remember what?”

Clara tilted her head, studying her like a puzzle. “Last time, you stayed longer. This time you came sooner.”

The words dropped heavy in the air, as if spoken in a language Evelyn almost understood but couldn’t.

“I think you should go to lunch now,” Evelyn said firmly, though her hand tightened on the desk to keep from trembling.

Clara slipped her notebook into her bag. Her eyes flicked once more to Evelyn before she walked out, leaving the room colder somehow.

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Students laughed and whispered, pencils scratched against paper, and Evelyn’s voice rose and fell in practiced rhythm. But beneath it all pulsed Clara’s words, a heartbeat Evelyn couldn’t ignore.

When the final bell rang, Evelyn packed her bag quickly. She needed air, space, anything that wasn’t four walls and watchful eyes.

Outside, the sky had dimmed to an iron gray. The rain that had threatened since yesterday finally began, thin needles that stung her cheeks.

She pulled her coat tighter and started down the street. The houses seemed to lean closer in the rain, porches sagging under years of weight, windows glowing faintly like half-lidded eyes. Neighbors turned to watch her pass—subtle, but enough to notice.

By the time she reached the general store, her breath was shallow. She ducked inside, shaking water from her coat.

Mags looked up from the counter, her ever-ready smile in place. “Well, if it isn’t our new teacher. How was the first day?”

Evelyn hesitated. She wanted to say fine. Normal. She wanted to leave it at that.

But the memory of Clara’s notebook pressed at her.

“There’s a student,” Evelyn said slowly. “Clara Jennings. Do you know her?”

Mags’s pen froze on the ledger. For the first time since they’d met, her smile faltered.

“Clara, yes,” Mags said after a pause. “Bright girl. Bit… strange, some would say. But harmless.”

Evelyn waited, sensing more.

Mags adjusted her glasses. “Her family’s been here a long time. Longer than most. Some folks claim the Jennings blood runs deep in Ashwick Falls.”

There was a tone there Evelyn couldn’t quite name—reverence, maybe, or warning.

“Why do you ask?” Mags pressed.

Evelyn forced a smile. “She just stood out to me, that’s all.”

Mags’s eyes lingered on her too long. Then she nodded. “Children see things differently. Sometimes too differently.”

The words followed Evelyn as she bought a loaf of bread and left the store.

---

That night, she sat at the small desk in her rented room. The lamp cast a dim circle of light over the notebook where she tried to write lesson plans. But the pages remained mostly blank, her thoughts circling back again and again.

You came back.

Last time, you stayed longer.

It was impossible. She had never been here before. She was certain.

And yet—her mother’s map. The way she had traced Ashwick Falls with her finger, as though it meant something. Had her mother been here once?

The rain outside deepened into a steady roar. Somewhere beyond the diner walls, the falls themselves rumbled like a living thing.

She set down her pen, restless.

Her eyes drifted to the window. Across the street, in the dim light of a streetlamp, a figure stood. Still, unmoving.

Evelyn’s breath caught. She leaned closer, squinting. The figure wore a hood, face hidden in shadow. Watching her.

Her hand hovered near the curtain. She wanted to close it, shut them out. But the moment she touched the fabric, the figure was gone.

The street was empty.

She sat back, heart racing, the roar of the falls pounding louder in her ears.

---

The next morning dawned pale and brittle. Evelyn walked to the school with her shoulders tight, every glance over her shoulder weighted with unease.

Classes began as usual. Children recited, wrote, whispered.

But when she called for homework, Clara raised her hand. Slowly, deliberately, she carried her notebook to the front and laid it on Evelyn’s desk.

Evelyn opened it.

The page was filled with water. Not in reality, but in drawing—swirling lines of pencil shading that formed waves, cascades, a flood. At the center was a figure, arms outstretched as though caught in the current.

It was Evelyn.

Her throat closed. “What is this?” she whispered.

Clara’s voice was steady. “What’s coming.”

Evelyn snapped the notebook shut. “Clara, enough. You shouldn’t—”

“Ask Thomas Vale,” Clara interrupted softly. “He knows. He always knows.”

The name landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward.

Evelyn had never heard it before. But the way Clara spoke it—with certainty, with inevitability—told her she would.

The bell rang again, sharp and sudden. Students gathered their things, chatter rising like static. Clara slipped back to her desk, leaving Evelyn clutching the notebook with trembling hands.

She looked down one last time at the drawing of herself drowning.

And when she looked up, Clara was staring at her with those steady, knowing eyes.