The next morning, Harper sat on the very last bench of the school library, a mess of papers spread in front of her—scribbled notes, copies of symbols from the ceiling, and that torn photograph from Room 13A.
Classes came and went like whispers around her, but she didn't move.
All she could see were the symbols.
They weren't random.
Some were stars. Some were numbers. Others, stranger—like merged letters or crooked hourglasses.
Harper had traced them from memory into her notebook and then again onto blank sheets to try decoding them. Something told her they weren't just decoration. They were a code. A map. A message.
And they weren't Katherine's.
They were hers.
Or... someone who used to be her.
Harper glanced down at the torn photograph again—the girl, unmistakably her, standing with a boy who had no face anymore. She ran her fingers along the edges.
The photo felt old. Too old.
The clothing in the picture wasn't from this decade. Maybe not even the last.
And then she saw it—on the lantern in her hand—engraved faintly:
Bellridge Festival, 1962.
Her hands shook.
1962.
Sixty-two years ago.
The year Katherine Quinn disappeared.
Was that girl… her? Or… Katherine?
But she had her face. Her smile. Her dimple. Everything.
It made no sense.
Unless…
Unless Katherine Quinn didn't just disappear--she fractured. Echoed.
And somehow… Harper Quinn was born as one of her pieces.
By mid-afternoon, Harper made her way to Bellridge's long-abandoned Archives Room. It was sealed to students, but she'd seen the janitor use a key to access it once, and Harper had always been good at getting what she needed.
All it took was waiting by the vending machine, offering a sweet, "Hi, Mr. Doyle, how's your back today?" and swiping the keys when he turned around.
Now she stood inside the Archives, breathing in the scent of dust and ink and forgotten things.
Boxes towered like tombstones. Old yearbooks, event flyers, confiscated items—all faded, brittle.
She found the 1962 box, dragged it to the light, and flipped it open.
Files. Photos. Student records.
And then—
A red-stamped folder labeled:
QUINN, KATHERINE
Missing Student Report: 13A Incident
Harper yanked it open.
Inside: a photo of Katherine—identical to her, except for a small scar over her left eyebrow.
Harper didn't have one.
A police statement. Notes from Principal Alder from sixty years ago. Mentions of "room inconsistencies" and a dismissed claim about "voices behind the wall."
She sighed frustrated everything was the same like she read before but then-
the most jolt part was a torn page from Katherine's journal, paper clipped to the top.
"They say I'm slipping. That I'm not me. But I am. I know who I am. My name is Katherine Quinn. And I refuse to forget myself. No matter how many versions they try to replace me with."
Harper slumped to the floor.
Replace her?
What did that mean?
Was Harper a version of Katherine? A reflection born through time's cracks?
And if so… where did the real Harper Quinn go?
Her name still felt like hers.
Her memories still felt real.
But what if Room 13A didn't care about what was real?
What if it just rewrote reality?
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Harper's breath caught.
She turned—slowly.
Nothing.
But then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
And in the glass of the fire extinguisher case across the hall—
She saw herself.
Only, her reflection wasn't sitting.
It was standing.
And smiling... haunting thing for eyes to see