The lights buzzed. Trays crashed and clanged like they were mad. Long tables stretched out, crowded with restless students. The rice tasted fake, but I ate it anyway—saving the apple for last, a treat for being good.

  I didn’t whisper her name; I didn’t need to. I just tried to remember the song as the static lingered in the background.

  "Shuul, Shuul, Shuul a Rune..." My voice caught. The next line didn’t come easy.

  “Close. But not quite Gaelic enough to summon ghosts,” Julian said teasingly, then leaned in and recited the full chorus: “Siúil, a Rúin, siúil go céile, siúil go céile go dtí go mbeidh tú liom.” Without the usual grin on his face, he looked different singing, his grey eyes almost shining as they turned still.

  My skin tingled with goosebumps, something shifting in the air. A warm, stale breeze drifted through the crowded room.

  I looked at the boy at the far table. He was humming the last line, just a beat too early. It didn’t sound right. Something about it felt off to me.

  “How’d you know it so well?” I hadn’t meant it like a challenge, just awe. Julian looked at the child as if he’d heard that song before, in a different room, with different walls. It made me wonder.

  Julian’s mouth twisted, as though memory had nudged him. “It’s my people’s tongue,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t learn it from them.” He didn’t elaborate further.

  “Because I used to sing it wrong,” he said finally. “I had to try again and again until I got it right.” He didn’t say when or who, but his voice carried the weight of correction—lyrical and personal.

  Cassian shifted, as if about to speak, but Julian’s sharp gaze stopped him. My fingers twitched against the tray. I adjusted my hand slightly, just enough to feel the edge press into my palm. I didn’t know why that helped… only that it did.

  The boy on the far side of the table hummed again, still off, the sound not carrying far. As it continued, the hum tuned faintly, a subtle, quiet shift.

  We ate slowly, the sound soft. The rice tasted like nothing, but it was warm enough to hold. Something to do. Just food. Just mine.

  Then, I asked softly, rubbing my fingers together. “So… do you guys have powers? Like real ones?”

  Cassian and Julian perked up, exchanging a glance and a smile—a look that felt like a shared memory, half joke, half ache.

  Cassian shifted closer, voice light. “Here, check this out.” He tapped the tray, his eyes gleaming as something appeared: a small folded crane made of rice, delicate and steaming.

  I stared at it, amazed. But then noticed something missing.

  The apple! Where did it go!?

  “Wait… where’s my apple?” I looked around.

  Julian was holding it, already halfway through a bite.

  “Julian!” I said. “I was saving that!”

  “What? This thing, you sure?” He grinned, pointing at the apple in his other hand.

  “Yes! Please, I was gonna eat it!”

  “I figured if you could teleport someone else’s drink into your hand, I could teleport your apple into mine. Fair’s is fair, right?”

  I blinked. He was there yesterday, back when I teleported Ripper’s drink.

  “Fine, fine,” he said, holding out the fruit with a crooked grin. It was playful, but not quite kind. “Here you go.”

  I reached for the gleaming apple. It flickered, my hand passing through.

  “Whoops,” Julian said, grinning wider. “Try again.”

  I stared at the fruit, its surface gleaming as if it had never been touched. I reached for it again. Flicker. Nothing.

  “Come on, you almost had it.”

  “Julian!” I snapped.

  “Julian!” Cassian echoed, louder, like he’d been waiting for someone to say it.

  “Okay, okay, last chance.”

  I lunged. A flicker and then the apple reappeared.

  Cassian groaned. “That’s enough.”

  Julian started giggling. “Relax, it’s an illusion,” he said, voice softer now as he pointed at my tray. “I wouldn’t steal your treat. Not really.”

  Then I saw that the apple was on the tray all along.

  Cassian chuckled. “He’s just showing off.”

  Julian shrugged, but there was a flicker behind his grin—something wistful. “It only works if I care,” he said, almost too quiet to hear. “Otherwise it falls apart.”

  I glared, but I was smiling. “So I’m your anchor now?”

  Julian didn’t answer, just shrugged before flicking the fake apple into steam.

  Cassian tapped the tray again. “Ripper unravels. I fuse.” He lifted his hand, and the rice crane softened, its folds smoothing into a bloom.

  I watched, breath held. “You made that?”

  “I made it stay,” Cassian said. “That’s the difference.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  It reminded me of Ripper’s sketch, the one that slipped out when he was asleep. I’d braced for something cruel. Maybe a list of victims. Instead, it was a drawing of Lian. His lines were gentle, softer than I’d imagined. This flower felt the same. As though it would bruise if I breathed wrong.

  Cassian said he made it stay. But Ripper never tried to make anything stay. He just tried to remember them before they faded.

  I wondered if Cassian had ever seen his drawings. If he knew how careful Ripper could be. How quiet. That he wasn’t always in the role they gave him.

  I picked up the apple. It was still cool, the skin smooth beneath my fingers. I took a bite. Sweet. Crisp. Real. For a moment, it was just food. Just mine.

  I savored it slowly, letting the sweetness settle. The hum didn’t shift. The vents stayed quiet.

  “Earlier…” I said as I finished eating the last bits of the apple. “You said something about sketches. And some other people, who were they?” I reached for the rice flower Cassian had made, lifting it gently from the tray.

  “What did you mean?” I didn’t mean to sound accusatory. But the words came out tight, throat aching from holding them too long.

  Cassian paused, fingers curling slightly. “Just some old friends—” When he did, his voice was low. “They just keep pushing us. Harder every time.”

  “Yeah. And now they’re picking favorites…” Julian’s smile lingered for a second, thin, practiced. But his eyes didn’t match. They’d gone distant.

  “Favorites? For what?” I asked, turning to Julian now.

  Julian’s eyes were on the tray, unmoving. His fingers tapped once, then slid along the edge. Slow, deliberate. His attention stayed focused on the metal as though he was anchored to it.

  Cassian’s voice was quieter than before. “Candidates.”

  “Candidates?” I spun the rice flower slowly between my fingers. The word still felt wrong, no matter how gently I turned it. I remembered that was what the Director had called Ripper. “What kind?”

  Cassian looked at me, eyes tired. Then shrugged. “Hell if I know. They say if we follow the program, we’ll stop being dangerous. Maybe even get to go back.”

  “Or maybe they’ll just use us like dogs,” Julian’s tone turned bitter. “Then get rid of us.” Julian mimed holding a shotgun, too cheerful for what he was saying. “Old Yeller style.”

  Cassian didn’t flinch, but I did, the tray rattling faintly beneath my fingers. We just looked at him, quiet, confused.

  Julian’s sardonic grimace wilted away. “You’ve never seen Old Yeller, huh?” I didn’t know what he meant; maybe it was some TV show or movie, but I knew the look in his eyes, as if he’d seen it end too many times.

  The lights and vents held steady. Silence pressed in.

  Maybe if I became a candidate, they’d stop calling me wrong.

  I remembered the way my mother had looked at me after it happened. How quiet she’d been… as though she’d been waiting for something to stop, or to be fixed.

  But what if I’m not? What if I never was?

  I didn’t know what being a ‘candidate’ really meant. Not yet. But I remembered the way the song echoed in my dream last night. It hadn’t just played—it had listened. Like it was waiting for someone to answer. And when it did, it didn’t just echo. It opened something. Made room. Like it wanted me to ask.

  “Hey,” I asked softly, “That song I heard last night… the one we’re all singing. Who started it?” I slowly rubbed my fingers together.

  Julian and Cassian exchanged a glance. “Queen, she woke us all up with her little Choiring.”

  ‘choiring.’ Another word, I didn’t know what it meant.

  “What’s choiring?” I asked, I wasn’t just curious—I was desperate. As if understanding it might help me understand myself.

  Cassian’s gaze flicked to the vent, then back to me. Julian leaned back, arms crossed, watching. Cassian’s grip on the tray tightened for a moment. Neither spoke right away.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “It’s like when you pull a guitar string, and the others start vibrating,” Cassian’s hand moved as if playing an invisible guitar string. “Even though you didn’t touch all of them, the vibrations made them move, right?” His gaze drifted, as though he was remembering a guitar that wasn’t here.

  After a moment of silence between us, Cassian took the spoon and fork. “That’s what choiring is.” Cassian tapped the tray once with the spoon. “We are the strings, and Choiring is the vibrations. One of us vibrates, and the others respond.” It echoed sharply, the spoon trembling with the impact.

  “But not every string responds properly,” Cassian said as the fork hovered, then dropped with a softer clink. “Choiring’s not just about vibrating, it’s about choosing the right tune, the right strings. And if you get it wrong…”

  Cassian held the fork in front of me. “When you Choir you’re not just vibrating. You’re syncing, like instruments tuned to the same note. Amplifying each like you are all part of the same circuit.”

  The spoon trembled while the fork stayed still. I didn’t know which one I was supposed to be. My fingers twitched, wanting to answer but unsure how.

  “Cassian’s strings and circuits,” Julian said, shaking his head. He sipped from a dented can and muttered, “Choiring’s great until someone loops wrong and you end up harmonizing with a breakdown.” He grinned crookedly, thinking it clever, then leaned back, cup in hand.

  Cassian’s gaze flicked to Julian, then away. I didn’t ask; I just felt the chill settle.

  Gabriela didn’t just sing. She’d done something else. It reminded me of the cup-and-string telephones we made in school. The sound didn’t just travel; it tugged.

  I remembered how the song hit me. It hadn’t just been in my head. Julian said it’d been in everyone’s. Whatever it was, it hadn’t just echoed; it had spread, like it wanted all of us to feel it.

  “All that from a song… from music?”

  Cassian rubbed his thumb across his brow, “It’s not always music,” he said. “But it’s one of the easiest.”

  Julian nodded, leaning in slightly, arms folding. “It’s just one of the simplest mediums we can use, but it can be done with others…” He turned his head, eyebrows raised, eyes gleaming as he stared at Cassian. “Even a simple beat works.” A mischievous smile crept across his face, reminding me of the boys in my school daring or teasing each other.

  Cassian groaned, “Oh no! No, no! I’m tired, I’m not gonna do that now!”

  “Oh, come on, Cassian. Queen already showed Mika the songs of my people. Shouldn’t she hear one from yours?” Julian said, knowing exactly how much that annoyed him.

  Cassian snapped, “You think I want her hearing that one?” His voice stayed low, but his shoulders squared. “It’s the same damn rhythm. Over and over. I hate it.” He traced tight circles in the air with one finger—like a loop he couldn’t escape. “If I do, she’ll pick it up. And I’ll end up hearing it all over Halden.”

  I got closer to Casian, just slightly. “I won’t steal your rhythm, promise.” Then I hit him with my best puppy-eye stare, the one I used on my parents when I wanted something. “I just want to know what it sounds like.”

  “No.”

  Julian snorted. “So let me get this straight, you’d rather listen to the vents whisper in tongues, or that weird static that sounds like it’s naming your bones, than risk her picking up a rhythm?” He shook his head, mouth curled in mock disbelief. “You’ve officially crossed into eldritch snobbery.”

  I didn’t answer right away, just let the words settle. It was absurd, but also kind of true. I’d heard this place shift into far stranger than a beat. Cassian never flinched. But this? This made him bristle for some reason.

  Julian leaned toward me, voice low. “He once walked through a hallway where vents screamed in Morse code. Didn’t even blink. But play a training cadence, and he starts muttering about cultural erosion.”

  When Julian saw that Cassian didn’t answer, he said with a gleam in his eye, “You know how ridiculous that sounds, right? You’d take alien sounds and ghost static over a beat that’s just—what? Mildly annoying?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Cassian finally said. He didn’t flinch at the strangeness. Just stared at the tray as if it had brought something back.

  “Fine. Don’t show me. I’ll just hum what I think it sounds like. Loud. Off-key. In every hallway.”

  Julian choked on his drink. Cassian glared.

  “Your choice.”

  Cassian closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. He picked up his spoon and tapped the tray: two sharp hits, a pause, then a rolling knock looping back on itself. The stubborn rhythm reminded me of something I’d heard once… maybe outside the car or in the street.

  The hum caught it, then faltered as though it had joined something it didn’t understand.

  I hadn’t meant to follow it. My hand moved before I could stop it, fingers tapping in time, breath syncing. The beat wasn’t just catchy; it had seeped in, through breath, thought, everything. I felt it in my chest, teeth, and behind my eyes. It wasn’t music anymore. It was a current. I was floating in it—carrying others with me.

  Fire. Shield. Beam. Collapse. Light. Spoon. Tray. Pulse. Echo. Again. Again. the same liturgy from before.

  Cassian didn’t look up, but the beat shifted slightly. As though he had noticed me and adjusted the rhythm to pull me deeper.

  “Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Keep listening. Fall into it.” The spoon tapped again, slower now, more deliberate. It felt less like playing, more like conducting.

  Julian glanced at Cassian, then at me. “He’s doing it on purpose,” he said quietly. “He wants you to follow.”

  I didn't know if I wanted to, but I already had.

  The rhythm looped again. My hand followed. My thoughts stretched. Then something shifted.

  Not in the room—in me. I felt it in my chest, in my teeth, behind my eyes. The hum had pulsed again, and this time, it hadn’t echoed Cassian.

  It had echoed me.

  The spoon lifted slightly, caught in an invisible pull. The rice folded inward, petals curling in retreat. The tray hadn’t just hummed. It had responded. A beat late as though it had to feel me first. Not to Cassian’s rhythm, but to mine.

  The hum gave a single thrum, then stilled. As though it was testing me, deciding on whether to follow or not. I hadn’t been summoning ghosts. I don’t know what I was summoning, but it felt like it was waiting for me.

  Cassian’s rhythm faltered, just slightly. As if he’d adjusted to make room and didn’t want to drown me out. “You’re in it now.” Then his eyes flicked toward me. Not surprised. Just… aware. “Don’t stop.”

  This time, I hadn’t wondered which one I was. I knew.

  I hadn’t asked what would happen next; the rhythm didn’t demand—it invited, as though it had made space for me and was waiting to see if I’d stay.

  I stayed in it. My shoulders dropped; I hadn’t realized I’d been holding them so tight. If I Choired right, maybe they’d stop calling me wrong, see me again, and think I was fixed. Cassian thinks he can go home. Maybe I could, too.

  Cassian had called it a circuit. Maybe that was what this was. I didn’t know for sure, just that I was inside it. He tapped again, and I fell deeper. The hum didn’t answer; it greeted me: quiet, steady, wrapping around me. Not loudly, just there, as though it had touched my rhythm and chosen to stay.

  Julian didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The room had already been singing.

  “Good.” Cassian finally said, “You’re choiring.”

  I looked at him. “How do you know?”

  He raised his other hand. “Because I can show you.”

  He activated something. Just for a second. A pulse. A release.

  A force appeared in his palm. Not light. Not heat. Just a pull. A vacuum. The trays clattered. The vents howled. The hum spiked—sharp and wrong, like a scream it didn’t mean to make. The mess hall erupted.

  The air pulled at my sleeves, like it had wanted to take me with it.

  Cassian hadn’t just choired, he had multiplied. And the hum didn’t stop him. “?Pu?eta! No, no, no!” Cassian said with a hiss, hands shaking as he shut it down.

  “Oh godammit!” Julian said, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the corridor.

  “I think I Choired way more students than I meant to, ” Cassian said right behind us, voice barely audible as he looked back at the mess hall.

  “You think?” Julian said with a loud wheeze. “Half the mess hall just tried to levitate their forks, the rice tried to form a union; the napkins staged a ballet, and the spoons… I think they launched into heaven.”

  Cassian groaned. “I was aiming for subtle,” He didn’t look at Julian, just back at the mess hall. Cassian shook his head slowly, like he was mourning the death of subtlety.

  My hair had frizzed into a halo, as if the surge had chosen me. I didn’t fix it. Julian didn’t comment.

  His hair had flopped to one side. Cassian didn’t comment. “This is what happens when you choir without a limiter!” Julian said as he braced against the wall. “Next time, maybe skip the juice machine.”

  Julian snorted, trying to smooth his own hair. “You look like you wrestled a thunderstorm.”

  Maybe we had.

  “So, is that normal?” I wondered if I’d done it wrong.

  “Only on Tuesdays,” Julian said, letting out a chuckle.

  The hum ticked once, like it was confirming the schedule.

  “Cool.” I smoothed my hair down, fingers catching on frizz. It didn’t fix anything, but it made me feel like I’d survived it. “I’ll pencil in my next meltdown for Tuesdays, then.”

  We didn’t run far. Just past the mess hall doors. Somewhere behind us, a tray clattered. Then silence.

  Cassian didn’t speak. Julian just rubbed his shoulder, like he was shaking off static. I shifted my weight. The floor pressed up, barely warm through my shoes. Metal and steam hung in the air, faint but clinging.

  I thought the Institute would shut things down. But it didn’t.

  I waited for the sirens. There should’ve been a lockdown. Or at least someone saying something. But nothing came…The vents stayed open, the corridor lights flickered faintly.

  No guards, no containment.

  Just the hum, the lights, and the quiet attunement of something that listens. It felt wrong. Not the silence, the permission. The system didn’t feel angry. It felt… curious.

  We walked in silence, the corridor stretching ahead in long, flickering segments.

  In my hand was the rice flower Cassian made, taken before the whole mess. It hadn’t wilted; the folds held their shape, the bloom curled like it was mid-breath. I turned it carefully, not wanting to crush it. It felt kept, preserved, as though waiting, remembering the rhythm too.

  Cassian didn’t flinch. “They’re letting it run,” he watched the ceiling as we walked, “A test, maybe.”

  The hum followed us, low and steady, as though it was listening in.

  Julian knocked his knuckle once against the wall: Soft, deliberate, the sound swallowed by the padded panels. “Doesn’t that remind you of someone?”

  “Ripper,” Cassian said, jaw tight. “They used to do it all the time.” He didn’t blink. Just stared ahead, as if the words had landed wrong. “Let the little bastard act out and make everyone else pick up the pieces.”

  Cassian’s bitterness caught me off guard. My hand moved on instinct, thumb pressing into the seam of my pants. It didn’t help. But it gave me something to hold onto while I tried not to flinch.

  “You all talk like he’s the worst.”

  They both turned to me—surprised, maybe even a little wary.

  “I’d heard the stories. I know he’s the Midwich Ripper. I know what he did…” The memory of his sketches flickered behind my eyes. “But he’s not all bad.”

  Julian snorted, “How adorable,” but his eyes held more pity than mockery.

  Cassian rolled his eyes. “God, what is it with moody psychos that makes girls swoon?” He gestured vaguely as we passed a junction, the lights pulsing overhead. “Maybe I should throw on some leather pants, smear on eyeliner, and start brooding in corners.”

  Julian didn’t miss a beat. “You’re halfway there.”

  “Yes. I'm sure,” Cassian retorted, already used to his friend’s comments. “Fine then, I’ll add eyeliner and a scowl. Maybe then they’ll call me misunderstood instead of a prick.”

  He smirked. “Hell, I’ll paint my face like a mime while I’m at it. Really sell the edginess.”

  The wall panel beside me stayed blank, its surface smooth and untouched. The corridor didn’t laugh, and neither did I. “You’re doing it too, you know.”

  Cassian blinked. “Doing what?”

  I looked at him, voice low. “Using jokes to hide who you really are.” Cassian’s humor wasn’t loud. It was tight. Contained. Like he was trying to keep something from leaking out. “He also says I should stay away from him, that he’s the Midwich Ripper. But I’ve seen his sketches…”

  Julian raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

  “They’re pretty. Like yours.” I said, showing Cassian the rice-flower sculpture he made.

  “I’m not saying he’s good,” I added. “I’m saying he’s scared. The same as us.”

  Cassian’s voice dropped, quieter than before. “Yeah… she used to say stuff like that.”

  I looked at him. “Who?”

  “Anne,” he said quietly, after a pause. “She said Ripper wasn’t that bad.”

  I swallowed and adjusted my grip on the rice flower, careful not to crush it. The folds still held.

  “She befriended him, even let him sketch her.” Cassian didn’t look at me.

  Instead, his eyes found the wall, fingers curling slightly. “Then the Midwich Ripper left her in the hospital wing.”

  The corridor lights flickered once. The hum shifted, not louder, just closer.

  “And Uriel just logged it as a success,” Julian said, tugging at his sleeve, slow and absent, like he was trying to keep something from slipping out.

  Cassian then turned to me, gaze steady. “She thought she could reach him.” He said, his voice softening slightly. “She was braver than the rest of us. Kinder, too.”

  I wanted to ask what had happened, but my words got stuck in my throat.

  Julian seemed to notice. “If you want to know more, talk to Queen.” He didn’t say it bitterly. Just tired. “She was closest to Anne. She still carries it.” Julian didn’t say more. But I remembered what he’d said before—harmonizing with a breakdown. Maybe that’s what happened.

  Cassian just kept walking, eyes forward, jaw tightened. Then he exhaled once, sharp and quiet.

  I counted the floor squares as I walked. One. Two. Three. Nothing. No clicks. No taps. It was odd…

  The panels looked metallic, but they didn’t echo. Maybe they were padded underneath.

  By then, the corridor had widened. The walls curved slightly, leading into a crossroad.

  Cassian slowed, then pointed down the left hallway. “She’s probably visiting her right now. If you go that way, you’ll see the hospital wing on your left.”

  I could’ve asked more, but I already knew. So, I just watched as Cassian and Julian continued down the opposite side. “Say hi to Anne for us if you see her,” Julian said as he waved goodbye.

  The hum still lingered, threaded through the air. Whether it waited or stayed, I couldn’t tell.

  The corridor curved, the lights dimmed. I passed two doors, a flickering panel, a vent that whispered in static. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Only that the hum hadn’t let go.

  I shifted the rice flower in my hand, careful not to crush it. The folds hadn’t wilted.

  Then I saw her standing in line at the dispensary, the lights shimmered faintly, as though they’d caught her signal.

  The hum didn’t quiet. It tuned, low and steady, syncing to someone as though it had already caught their frequency. It didn’t echo. It pulsed, faint and deliberate, even as it held breath with me.