The rain outside the library hadn't completely stopped. A fine mist clung to the glass, like cold sweat.
I sat there, staring at one word scratched into the corner of the old, scarred table. Dave.
The writing was small, done in white correction fluid that had hardened and started to chip at the edges. A relic from tenth grade, back when Mrs. Linda gave us detention and told us to summarize the chapter on World War II. Instead of working, Dave was busy drawing a caricature of the teacher. I—foolishly—had carved his name right next to it.
Back then, it felt funny. It felt like we were going to be the school's troublemaker duo forever. Now, looking at that name felt like looking at a ghost.
I touched the letters with the tip of my index finger. Rough. Cold. "Where have you been, Cell?" I
