It Wasn’t Her Voice
That pierced through the noise of the classroom. It was barely a whisper, almost like a breath carried by the wind, but somehow, it found me.
I turned, scanning the room full of lively students swapping stories, laughter, and complaints about homework. It wasn’t hard to find her, though; she stood out, always. She sat in the far corner, behind the mess of backpacks, sweatshirts, and forgotten notebooks strewn across the floor. Unlike the others, who were alive with movement, her presence was still — a sharp contrast to the energy around her.
I knew her voice now.
It had taken me a while to even notice she was in my class. Not because she was forgettable, but because she blended into the walls like a shadow, like a faint memory you can’t quite hold onto. She arrived late to the semester, slipped in quietly, and made no effort to draw attention. Her name — Hazel — was on the roster, but I hadn’t seen her face for days.
Hazel.
The name felt fragile, delicate, yet every time I heard it, it hit me like a brick. A few months before, we had lost Hazel — our Hazel. The one who used to sing songs to the stars and dream up stories of dragons and hidden worlds. My little sister, fourteen years old, gone in the blink of an…
