It's wrong for parents to bury their children. It should be the other way around. - Rose Kennedy

The school hallway was eerily quiet as I made my way towards the auditorium. My heart raced, a mix of excitement and anxiety. Jon had already left for basketball practice, leaving me to handle auditions alone.

As I approached the dim corridor leading to the auditorium, a sudden hand shot out from the shadows, grabbing me tightly. I gasped, yanked into a nearby room, and darkness swallowed us whole.

Pulling out my phone, I turned on the flashlight, shining it in their face. It was Damon, the new kid I'd tried to befriend.

"Why did you grab me?" I demanded, my voice trembling.

"I'm sorry, Harley. I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to talk."

Did he not get how dangerous this was? Especially with girls disappearing in town?

I mean, who pulls a girl, or anyone, into a dark room?

He's lucky pepper spray is illegal here.

"Talking doesn't mean dragging someone into a dark room!" I snapped, fists clenched.

He flinched. "I know, I messed up," he said, defeated. "I wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn't mean for it to escalate."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, because that's how you fix things. Just grab someone and hope for the best."

A faint smile appeared on his face. Relief? "I didn't think it through," he admitted, his voice softer now.

I crossed my arms. "You think? This isn't exactly the safest town. Girls disappearing, and you decide to do this?"

His smile faded. "I get it. It was stupid. But I didn't want our friendship to end like that."

I studied him. Was it guilt or just frustration? "Look, you can't just pull people into darkness and expect them to talk it out."

He nodded slowly, understanding creeping into his expression. "I promise, no more surprises."

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while I faced him in the deserted classroom. His eyes held a mix of guilt and worry. I leaned in, keeping my voice low. "Okay, so why'd you pull me in here?"

He shifted in his seat, avoiding my gaze. "I wanted to explain."

"Explain what? I went out of my way to be nice to you, and you spat me in my face, saying that we were not friends."

He looked down, fidgeting with his shirt. "You're right. I lied. I do consider you a friend."

"But why? Is it about Kirsty? Is that why you two fought? Is that why she slapped you?"

Damon shook his head. "That? It wasn't a big deal."

"Didn't look like nothing to me," I snapped. "Why would she slap someone she barely knows? Unless..."

"Yeah," he sighed. "Our parents knew each other."

"Oh, so that explains it. But what else was going on?" My voice softened.

"My dad," Damon whispered.

"What? He doesn't like me?" He hasn't even met me.

"No," he said. "He's just... been acting weird since we arrived. Like he always does right before we move again."

"I'm sorry, Damon," I said gently, reaching out to pull him into a hug. "I had no idea."

He looked up at me. "I know I messed up, Harley. Can we start fresh? Be friends again?"

I hesitated. Memories of our fight replayed in my head—harsh words spoken out of anger.

"Fine." My voice was soft but firm. "Let's start over. Just don't make me regret it." A small smile broke across his face, relief flooding his features.

As we stood there, I knew I had to ask about his mother, Mary. The name sent chills through me, memories of our unsettling encounter at the town archives creeping back. "I think we spoke to her," I blurted, earning a confused look from Damon.

The story spilled out. I recounted our eerie meeting with Mary, the ghostly figure with blood on her dress, warning us to protect Damon from ending up like "them." Damon's face paled, shock etched in every feature. "That's... that's impossible," he whispered.

"I know it sounds crazy," I admitted. "But she seemed real. And she asked us to look out for you."

He shook his head, disbelief etched in his brow. "I never got the chance to meet my mom. All I have are stories."

The pieces began to fit together. There was more to Damon's past than I realized. And Mary's warning felt like a curse, warning us of about an unseen threat.

"I don't know what this means," Damon finally said. "But if there's something going on with me, if there's danger because of my mom, we need to figure this out together."

I could understand where Damon was coming from.

There was only so many times you can apologize to someone, especially over the loss of a loved one.

I never thought I would become so accustomed to the sound of apologies. Each one rang hollow in my ears, a constant reminder of what I had lost. My father, a man who lived his life selflessly, was taken from me too soon.

But amidst all the apologies and well wishes, there was one person who stood out from the rest—an old friend of my father's who had known him since they were kids. Instead of offering empty words or platitudes, he simply squeezed my shoulder and said quietly,

"Your father was a good man, Harley. A rare breed in this world full of selfishness and greed. Remember his lessons well."

The days after his death blurred together in a haze of condolences and sympathy. People I barely knew came forward with stories of my father's kindness, as if trying to make up for their absence in his life. But their words fell on deaf ears, unable to fill the void left by his absence.

I found myself drowning in memories of him, each one a bittersweet reminder of the man he was. A man who believed in second chances, even when others didn't deserve them. His generosity was both a gift and a curse, often taken advantage of by those he tried to help.

I remember the day he caught one of his employees stealing from him. Instead of turning him over to the authorities or firing him on the spot, my father sat him down and offered him a second chance. He even went as far as checking him into rehab to help him get back on his feet.

The same employee stole from him again, this time taking more than just money. It broke my father's heart, but he still refused to give up on him.

But despite it all, he never wavered in his belief that everyone deserved forgiveness. No matter how many times someone falls, they can always rise again. It was a lesson he tried to instill in me, even as I struggled to come to terms with his loss.

As the days turned into weeks and then months, I realized that perhaps the true lesson my father had taught me wasn't about forgiveness or second chances. It was about resilience and strength in the face of adversity. Finding the courage to move forward even when everything around you was falling apart.

I vowed then and there to carry on my father's legacy of kindness and compassion, but with one crucial difference: I would not be blinded by false promises or empty gestures. True forgiveness came from within oneself, not from external validations or meaningless apologies.

"Ever since we moved here, he's been different." Damon confided in me.

"Maybe there's something bothering him," I suggested. "Have you tried talking to him about it?"

Damon shook his head. "He's always busy with work. It's like I don't even exist."

"Is there any way you can find out what's going on?" I asked.

He hesitated, biting his lip. "When he bought the house, there was this sunroom. He turned it into a home office. Tons of files in his desk drawer and filing cabinets."

"Perfect!" My voice dropped to a whisper. "Is there any way you could sneak in there and look for anything that might explain his behavior?"

Damon sighed. "It's locked. He's the only one with a key. He's never let me in. Lately, he's been even more strict about it."

I frowned. Mr. Johnston's shift in demeanor lined up too neatly with Miranda's disappearance and her tragic end. Suddenly, a plan sparked in my head. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a bobby pin. "Use this to pick the lock," I urged, handing it to him.

His eyes widened, caught between fear and curiosity as he examined the makeshift lock-picking tool. "How do you know about stuff like this?" he asked, one brow raised.

I chuckled softly, the tension breaking slightly. "Let's just say I have a knack for solving mysteries."

Together, we plotted to uncover the truth behind Mr. Johnston's odd behaviour.

"You and Jon are basically the only ones who've talked to me since I moved here," Damon said, his voice barely above a murmur.

"Other than Kirsty," I added, bitterness creeping into my tone.

"Yeah. Other than Kirsty," he replied, a hint of frustration in his eyes. "But do you think she knows something?"

I pressed him, urgency in my voice. Damon paused, searching for the right words. "Well, she doesn't seem too worried about her friend being murdered. None of them do."

"That's exactly what I've been thinking," I said, my heart racing. "Miranda was supposed to be their friend! Shouldn't they be acting more concerned?"

Damon nodded slowly, his brow furrowing. "If they really cared, they'd show some sign of sorrow or worry."

"Yet her ex-boyfriend is the only one who looks shaken by it all," I pointed out, a chill creeping down my spine.

The pieces were starting to fit, but the picture still felt incomplete. We were on the edge of something big. I could feel it.

We talked some more, laughing, until I noticed the time. My stomach dropped. I was late for auditions with Mr. Haggerty.

"I'm supposed to be helping Mr. Haggerty with auditions for Phantom Of The Opera," I blurted out, glancing at the clock. Panic set in as I gathered my things.

"Cool," Damon said, his eyes widening. "We read it last year at my old school." His enthusiasm was infectious, but I couldn't linger.

"Well, if you do decide to join Jon and me," I said, a hopeful spark igniting in my chest, "you can find the address online."

"Okay," Damon nodded, but his voice dropped. "Maybe."

"Alright. Bye," I said, urgency pushing me toward the door.

"Bye," he echoed.

I stepped out, heart racing as I made the short trek to the auditorium.

The school auditorium was dimly lit. The stage glowed faintly, casting Mr. Haggerty's silhouette against the heavy red velvet curtains. My heart raced as I walked down the aisle.

"Harley! I'm so glad you made it," Mr. Haggerty exclaimed, his voice bouncing off the walls. Curious eyes turned toward me, sizing me up, whispering about the role I would play in this year's production. "I've asked Harley here to assist me with this year's production, Phantom Of The Opera."

Excited whispers and giggles erupted around me as I took my place beside him. My mind drifted back to the dream I had last night. A chilling scene where he met a gruesome end at the hands of a mysterious woman. I shook it off, determined to focus.

Suddenly, I noticed another student entering late through the back door. It was Melissa. She strolled in like she owned the place, her tardiness clearly irking Mr. Haggerty more than mine. "Why is he upset with her but not me?" I wondered. He reprimanded Melissa, but not me.

Whispers erupted amongst those gathered.

Before I could voice my thoughts, Mr. Haggerty raised a hand, silencing the room. "We all have our roles to play in this production," he said, his gaze sweeping over us. "Remember, every member of this team is important and valued."

Mr. Haggerty's voice bounced off the walls of the vast auditorium as he sorted the students by their interests.

"Anyone interested in starring in the play, please move to the left." A majority jumped up, eager to claim their place among the hopefuls.

"Those wishing to do costume design are on the right. Experience is preferable. I see we have some students from Ms. Hollow's fashion class. Thank you for showing up." A handful shuffled over, the group small but spirited, five in total.

"Now, lastly, since we only have one aisle left, those interested in tech sit at the front. Set design, you're behind them. Leave one row of space in between." The remaining students complied, some exchanging glances, unsure of their choices.

"Perfect. Let's kick things off with costume and set design. I asked you to bring portfolios. I skimmed through them at lunch, and honestly, I was impressed." A wave of relief washed over the room; their hard work was noticed. "We'll need as many as we can for costume design. Any of you also do makeup?"

Four hands shot up. The only boy in the group remained seated.

When Mr. Haggerty asked for ideas on improving auditions, I suggested something simple: let the actors run their lines in pairs before the actual auditions. It felt like a smart way to help them shine, which would help us pick the most qualified candidates. He nodded, clearly on board, and paired the actors to practice while we got things in order with the costume and tech teams.

For the next half an hour, I watched students do their best. Some trembled with nerves, while others walked in like they owned the stage. But everyone gave it their all.

Finally, after the last performance, fatigue settled in. It had been a whirlwind, but it felt good to see everyone trying their best.

"Well," I yawned, "that was the last one. What did you think?"

"They were all very good," Mr. Haggerty replied, warmth in his voice as he placed a hand on my shoulder. "Thank you for all your help today. Now go home and get some rest."

Nodding, I stepped out of the auditorium, a mix of fulfillment and exhaustion settling over me. Just as I exited, Jon jumped out of nowhere. "Bah!" he exclaimed, making me jump.

"Jesus Christ! Jon, you—ugh! You nearly gave me a heart attack," I scolded, trying to catch my breath.

"Harley Masterson!" Jon proclaimed dramatically. "Died after being scared to death by her ridiculously handsome best friend."

I rolled my eyes. "You're not that handsome, Jon. Not like Jason Momoa, Roman Reigns, or Spencer Reid."

He laughed at my teasing. "Okay, okay. The first two have kids, and Spencer Reid isn't even real. He's just a character on a TV show."

I sighed dramatically. "Well, there goes my fictional love life."

Jon chuckled, then his expression shifted. "Are you going to Miranda's funeral tomorrow?"

I paused, the weight of his question pressing down on me. "Ugh, I forgot that was tomorrow."

He nodded, seriousness creeping in. "Yeah. It's going to be tough. They said it's going to be a closed casket."

The thought sent chills through me. "Wow."

Silence fell between.

Life felt fragile and unpredictable. Parents shouldn't have to bury their children. Yet, tomorrow, that would happen—a heartbreaking farewell for a life taken too soon.

As we walked, I couldn't shake the thoughts swirling in my mind. Who could do something like this? What kind of darkness could drive someone to murder?

The events leading up to the funeral played out in my head like a twisted mystery novel. Each detail added another layer of confusion. But amidst the chaos, one thing remained: Tomorrow would be filled with grief, loss, and questions that may never be answered.

Fate had a cruel sense of humour. Tomorrow, the sun would rise on a day no parent should ever face. Tomorrow, they would lay their beloved daughter to rest.