A seemingly normal girl had been enrolled in a certain school many years ago.
No one knew why she had moved there, as she had been living in a different place before then, and had just moved to that town.
Regardless, the other children tried to be her friends.
The curious children asked her questions about herself and about her own home, and she answered them eagerly
However, any time she was asked about her family, she grew cold and silent.
This led them to believe that she simply came from a bad home.
During the first year there, she had made a few friends and was nice to everyone in her new school.
In her second year there, new students were in her building, and she returned the kindness to them that her classmates had shown to her.
She was kind and eager to share stories of her old life with them.
However, she still never mentioned her family.
One day, another student asked her, "Why don't you ever talk about your family?".
She responded, "Something happened."
She did not answer any more of his questions that day.
The next day, he tried again, asking, "Were you abused?"
She answered, "No."
She was silent for the rest of the day.
Again and again, the boy would ask the girl what had happened.
He tried not to be specific in his questioning, as this seemed to upset her.
Still, she only answered one question each day.
"Did someone leave?"
"Yes."
"Was there a divorce?"
"No."
"Did someone move out?"
"No."
"Did someone die?"
"Yes."
He was not sure he wanted to know anymore, but he continued, having come so far.
"Was it a parent?"
"No."
"Was it a sibling?"
"Yes."
"Was it a brother?"
"Yes."
"How did your brother die?"
She didn't answer.
She went missing the next day.
He never forgot what she said, even twenty years later, as he returned to the now abandoned school.
Twenty years since she answered her last question.
He walked the same halls as he had so long ago.
He didn't know what, exactly, he would find, but he knew he would find it here.
Something called him further in.
Maybe answers.
Maybe her.
He wondered what she would look like if he did see her again.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a slamming locker.
The man jumped, turning in the direction of the sound.
No one was there.
He called her name, which I dare not say.
No response.
He scrambled for a flashlight.
It flickered on, but he felt a chill, compelling him to turn it off again.
He wandered in the dark halls, calling to the girl, until he knew it was time to stop.
He asked her again.
"How did your brother die?"
Another crash of a metal door.
He followed the sound.
When he reached the locker, he found the lock had been broken by the impact.
He looked inside.
A note.
He dared use the flashlight only long enough to read the three words on the paper.
"HE WAS KILLED."
The handwriting was strange, lopsided, as if the girl, or whatever this was, had had trouble holding the pen.
He looked around.
The room was empty.
"Who killed him?" He asked.
A book flew at his head.
He barely ducked in time for it to crash into the next locker.
Another note.
"I DID."
Then his flashlight died.
His blood ran cold.
He looked around once again.
He could barely see the furthest corners of the room, it was so dark.
He called to her once more.
"Where are you? I want to talk to you."
No response.
No sound at all.
After a while, he decided to try again the next day.
As he returned to the entrance, he realized he hadn't even checked the first locker.
He didn't even have to open it, as the note was wedged in the door.
He brought it closer to the moonlight shining from a boarded window.
And he read two words, still written in her clumsy handwriting.
"BEHIND YOU"