*
The Echo Wears A Smile
*

Emma?

His heart stopped.

It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be.

Emma—who had died in his arms, who had convulsed and bled internally as he screamed for help, who Xenelov had tried to save with the last of his precious, cursed blood—was now standing right there in front of him. A blonde halo lit by the dull light slipping in through the classroom windows. That same warm smile on her lips, those piercing blue eyes that always sparkled too much when she was excited. Laughing. Smiling. Alive.

Rostin felt all the strength in his legs vanish. His chair as if groaned although it never tilted, seeming to crash backwards to the floor with a loud thud. He landed hard, a sharp pain shooting through his shoulder as he fell, but even pain was a distant thing now. The sound was swallowed by the idle chatter of classmates, none of whom spared him more than a single, distracted glance.

No one screamed. No one looked shocked.

No one acted like Emma had died.

As he lay frozen on the cold wood for a heartbeat longer, a realisation crept up his spine like ice—no one was sad. Not her friends. Not the people who used to sit beside her. They all carried on like everything was normal. Like she’d never left. Because… to them, she hadn’t.

Rostin didn’t remember getting back into his seat, but suddenly he was upright again, his hands clutching the edges of the desk, white-knuckled. His eyes locked on the back of Emma’s head—first-row seat, as always. Golden strands swaying gently whenever she tilted her head or laughed at something the boy next to her whispered.

His breath came shallow. His vision narrowed.

What... is going on...?

The class moved on without him. Miss Elsmore entered, her voice clipped and precise as ever. She began the lecture, and pens scratched against paper, pages flipped, answers were called out in that proper, well-trained Cambridge cadence. But to Rostin, it was all muffled. Like he was underwater. Every word passed through him, every moment unfelt.

His mind was spiralling.

Was this magic? Some twisted fragment of reality left behind by Xenelov’s spell? Was he hallucinating? Dreaming? Was he dead?

He didn’t even notice the class ending. He barely realised everyone had started packing up until a voice—sharp and unimpressed—cut straight through the fog in his head.

"Rostin Winford! Where are you lost?"

His head snapped up.

Miss Elsmore stood at the front of the classroom, her arms folded tightly over a stack of books, her gaze sharp behind wire-framed glasses. The room had emptied halfway; only a few students lingered by the door, paused mid-conversation to see what the fuss was about.

Rostin stumbled to his feet. “Y-Yes, ma’am.”

She stared at him with tired annoyance. “Come to the staffroom later. We’ll talk about the essay and group session you missed last week.”

He nodded numbly. But the words that left his mouth next felt like they belonged to someone else—someone still clinging to fragments of a different reality.

“Wh-What about Xene— I mean, Mister Sinclair? Do I send him the notes and mention your warning?”

Time stilled.

Heads turned. A few of the students stopped at the door turned fully around now, staring. Some laughed under their breath. Others exchanged confused glances. One of them whispered, “Sinclair? Who the hell is that?”

Elsmore’s lips twitched—somewhere between irritation and pity. She adjusted the books in her arms and exhaled sharply.

“If you’re feeling unwell, stay at home,” she said curtly. “Do not let your dizzy foolishness spread to others. There is no 'Mister Sinclair' in this class, Rostin. Now then—I'll see you in the staffroom.”

She turned and swept out of the classroom, heels clicking against the floor, the remaining students following after her in a slow trickle of laughter and whispered questions.

Except one.

Callum lingered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat as he jogged up the rows to where Rostin still stood, his figure rigid with disbelief.

“Hey, mate.” He gave him a gentle nudge. “You alright? Who’s this Sinclair you were on about?”

Rostin turned to face him, the attempt at a smile twitching brokenly at the corners of his mouth. His eyes—still wide, still filled with that cold shimmer of dread—told a very different story.

“Ah… haha… you know,” he stammered, scratching the back of his neck with trembling fingers. “The… the kid who joined us last week? He looked… very elegant. Dark coat. Silver cufflinks. Sort of posh, right?” He laughed, a hollow, miserable sound. “Well… haha…”

His words trailed off. His hands dropped.

Callum frowned, his brow furrowed, concern flooding his expression. “...Rostin.”

He placed a firm hand on Rostin’s shoulder. “You need to calm down. If you’re feeling sick, shall I take you to the nurse? You’re looking pale as death.”

Rostin didn’t respond right away. His legs buckled slightly as he slumped into the seat behind him, hands slack in his lap. He looked out of the window, eyes unfocused, as though he were still seeing things the rest of the world had forgotten.

Callum knelt beside him, his voice quieter now. “Are you okay?”

“I am…” Rostin whispered, lips barely moving. His throat felt dry. Empty. “I have to be…”

He looked down at his hands, still faintly trembling.

“I’ll be fine…”

But the cold weight in his chest told him otherwise.

Something was deeply, terribly wrong.

And he was the only one who remembered.

Callum gave Rostin a warm, encouraging nod before rising to his feet. “Alright then, mate,” he said, voice light, hand patting Rostin’s shoulder with a comforting firmness, “let’s head on over to the next class, yeah?”

Rostin looked up, his gaze heavy with thoughts that were clawing at his skull. He forced a faint nod. “Yeah… right behind you.”

Classes dragged on like ghosts drifting through a mist. From one ancient stone building to another, the hours passed, but to Rostin it all felt like noise beneath water. Emma was always there, sitting right up front like she always did — pristine, composed, her pen gliding effortlessly across her notebook — but unreachable. Each time the final bell rang, Rostin leapt from his seat, desperate to speak to her. Yet each time, a swarm of her friends gathered, pulling her into lively discussions about assignments or gossip that seemed so horribly mundane in contrast to what Rostin was grappling with.

She smiled. She laughed. She touched arms, nudged shoulders. And not one soul looked at her with grief. No one looked like they'd mourned her. No one looked like they had ever lost her.

Rostin didn’t exist in that world. Not anymore.

By the time the sun had begun to sink, casting long, claw-like shadows across the university grounds, the day had come to an end. Rostin trudged toward the main gates, his satchel digging into his shoulder. A few students waved at him in passing — pleasant, familiar faces that used to mean something. He waved back, but his smile was hollow, painted on with shaky fingers.

“Hah…” he sighed, breath fogging in the cooling evening air.

The walk home passed like a fever dream. Street lamps flickered overhead, casting dim orange halos. A cat mewled from the alley behind the bakery. Someone was burning leaves, the smell acrid in the distance. But Rostin didn’t notice. When he finally came back to himself, he was standing in the centre of his own library, bag abandoned on the floor, staring at a bookshelf.

The same shelf.

Right where he had been that day.

The day Xenelov appeared.

His breath caught in his throat. He didn’t remember unlocking the door. Didn’t remember climbing the creaking wooden stairs. But here he stood — back in the room that birthed the impossible.

The flickering candlelight painted long shadows across the shelves. His hand trembled as he reached forward and whispered to himself, "If you really did come from the book... then you should be in the book..."

It didn’t take long to find it. Journey of Zefress. Bound in dark leather, the corners frayed. A novel of thriller, mystery... and what he’d assumed had been pure fiction. His fingers brushed against the spine reverently as he pulled it from the shelf. The weight of it was heavier than he remembered. Or maybe his hands were weaker now.

He flipped through the pages, breath shallow. Page after page blurred past. And then—he stopped.

“Page 345…” he whispered, running his finger down the margin.

But… nothing.

No Xenelov. No vampires. No blood rites. No piercing red eyes or sharp-toothed smile. There was nothing about such moments, about that day. The scene he remembered so vividly was simply gone, not in the book or reality — replaced by something else entirely. A generic passage about a dreamscape, barely legible in places.

But one thing stood out.

The page bore erasure marks. Smudges where ink had been scraped away. Not something you’d find in a printed book. Not normal.

It looked tampered with.

Rostin’s brow furrowed, heart hammering.

“How…?” he breathed, fingers brushing the ghostly imprints of what had once been words.

Then—

Ding-dong.

The sharp chime of the doorbell rang out.

Rostin stiffened.

He never had visitors. Never. That was part of the wish, wasn’t it? The wish he had made to Xenelov. The vampire had granted him popularity — yes — but had warned others away from the house. This place had remained his haven. His prison. His secret.

But Xenelov was gone now. Wasn’t he?

Still clutching the book to his chest, Rostin hurried down the narrow corridor, the porcelain floorboards squeaking underfoot. His shadow danced across the walls like a silent spectre. He reached the front door, his heart pounding in his ears.

He opened it.

And there stood Callum.

Smiling. Casual. Like nothing was amiss in the world.

“Evenin’, mate,” Callum said cheerfully, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat. “Thought I’d check on you. You seemed a bit... off today.”

Rostin blinked, mouth parting in surprise. “O-oh. Um… come on in.” His voice cracked slightly as he stepped aside.

Callum nodded and entered without hesitation. His eyes wandered briefly around the corridor as if already familiar with it.

Rostin shut the door and turned slowly, the book still clenched tightly in one hand.

And then it hit him.

He hadn’t told anyone where he lived.

Not once.

Not ever.

Not even Callum.

He hadn’t shared his address. Hadn’t posted it. Hadn’t given directions. It had always been his rule.

So how—?

His fingers tightened around the spine of the book.

He watched as Callum walked in further, looking around like someone who belonged. That easy smile. That confident gait.

A chill licked the back of Rostin’s neck.

“Callum…” he began, voice quiet. “How did you know where I live?”

Callum turned back to face him — that same friendly expression still on his face.

But something in his eyes had shifted.