Fern Millwood arrived at Silverstone Academy ten minutes early and still felt late.

A shy sun warmed the campus stone. Leaves rustled overhead, and a faint hum underfoot told Fern her nerves had followed her inside. She adjusted the strap of her sensible bag and reminded herself of the plan: introduce liminal studies basics and keep the syllabus simple without apologizing for existing. Easy.

The classroom was smaller and older than she expected. Chalk grooves scored the slate like memory lines. The quiet reminded Fern of boardrooms and elevators, those moments when everyone was waiting to judge. Fern set her notes on the lectern, smoothed the page twice, and smiled at the semicircle of students filtering in. Most looked curious, although one appeared bored. Tabitha Egan, if the roster was right, looked relieved to see her.

Pickles leapt onto the windowsill with a thump and glared at her.

You’re early. Suspicious.

Fern ignored him and launched into her welcome. She explained how to recognize thresholds, why students should listen before acting, and the importance of safety. Her voice grew steadier as she spoke. Maybe this would work..

When the bell chimed, the students drifted out with murmured goodbyes. Fern exhaled, a quiet victory. She gathered her notes, reached into her bag for reassurance and paused.

The familiar weight wasn’t there.

Her fingers searched again. The bag was empty except for pens and a wool scarf scratching her wrist. She checked the desk, but the space beside her notes was bare.

Pickles’ ears flattened. He sniffed once, twice, and fixed her with a look of offended certainty.

That, he seemed to say, wasn’t misplaced.

Fern swallowed. “Okay,” she whispered to the empty room. “That’s not ideal.”

She stood very still and listened. The faint vibration beneath the floorboards had changed. Not stronger, exactly. Just wrong enough that she noticed it.