The town of Greystone never slept soundly. Nestled in a valley where the mist clung like a second skin, its narrow streets echoed with the faint toll of a bell no one could find. They called it the Hollow Bell, a sound that drifted through the fog every spring, soft as a whisper, sharp as a blade. No one knew where it came from-not the old-timers in the diner, not the kids who dared each other to wander the woods at dusk. But everyone knew what followed: someone went missing. Always one, never more, never less.
In April 2004, it was my turn to hear it. I was sixteen, new to Greystone High, a transplant from a city that didn't believe in ghosts. My first day in Class 4-C, I noticed the empty desk by the window, its surface scratched with initials no one claimed. The other students avoided it, their eyes sliding past like it was a hole in the world. Then there was Lila, the girl who sat alone, her shadow too long for the light. She watched me when she thought I wasn't looking, her fingers tracing patterns on her notebook-patterns that matched the scratches on that desk.
