As she stepped off the bus at Blackwell, the first thing she noticed was that no one around her had a face.

The figures sitting under the trees, the ones fumbling with their umbrellas at the stop, those hurrying past her on the sidewalk—each one bore features that were as smooth and blank as a pebble in a brook. When she pushed past the double doors of the main building, she found more of the same: the caretaker, the teachers, the students who hadn't left yet for the summer. No one noticed her as she trudged past. How could they, without eyes or ears? And when they talked, it was with hushed, muffled tones that might as well have been silence.

Has it always been like this, she wondered, and am I only noticing it now?

But did it matter? It wasn't like she came to Blackwell for the people. No—she came here to be away from home. Far from the voices. These missing faces whose names she could no longer recall, they were just acquaintances to be made and forgotten, names in a yearbook she might look at once in a decade.

But if she went into a bathroom right now and looked in the mirror, what would she see? Someone like them? Nameless and faceless?

Tears began to flow down her cheeks as she hurried through the lobby to the stairwell. In this perfect silence where no one could see or hear her, the voices had come back—at first a murmur, but growing louder by the moment, pursuing her as she climbed.

"You still single?"

"Wear make-up and prettier clothes. Maybe then you'll get boyfriend."

"You're getting fat. Eat less."

"If she's lucky, she can be bank teller or stewardess. Meet rich man to marry."

These past few years away from home, it had been easy to lose herself in her books and her games, in the black hole of the computer screen. Blackwell had been her escape, and for a time, she had forgotten the words she heard every holiday season. But while she'd gotten good at burying them, they had never truly gone.

She pushed herself to climb floor after floor to outrun them. Some faded away, but one remained, an invisible hag that clung to her back and hissed—

"3.9 GPA? Why not 4.0?"

"Always computers. Your piano playing is suffering. You don't practice enough—too lazy!"

"When will you learn that you can't earn a good life by being mediocre? It spills into every part of your life—your career, your marriage, everything!"

"Do you have any idea how much we've sacrificed for your schooling?"

What a funny thing for her mother to say—a woman who had been told to her face that her greatest achievement was getting married!

Well, what would she think of her daughter now that she's been outed as a criminal, a hacker who had misused the skills her parents had paid for?

Was she even a person anymore? When had she become a debt to be called in, a piece to be moved on the board?

"You're young—what have you got to be sad about?"

She was out of breath by the time she reached the top floor. Wiping the tears and sweat from her eyes, she shoved the door open, revealing a musty room with nothing but old furniture and even older books. It was not even a library—just a place where the school kept everything it wanted to forget.

Past the shelves and book stacks, three tall windows faced west, portals that opened into gray silence. Catching her breath, she approached and used the adjacent chair and table as stepping stones to reach the latch of the middle window. A cold breeze greeted her as she opened it, sending the pearl-colored curtains drifting against her hand. For the moment, the wind snatched away her mother's voice.

She stood at the edge of the tallest point in Blackwell, all of five stories high. Beyond the road, the town was nothing but a curtain of slow-shifting gray. This was it. No more climbing, no more pushing this boulder. It was all downhill from here.

She had done everything the white-haired stranger had asked. On her bus ride back, she'd used her phone to delete all her files—the ones she had spent days decrypting—from the cloud. Like cleaning and locking up a home she was never going back to.

She gripped the window frame and planted her feet on the sill. Below, faceless people were running in from the rain. No one would see her. Maybe no one would even notice she was gone.

One more step and she would have perfect silence, the bliss of being no one.

"Brooke?"

The voice surprised her into turning around. She wasn't quite as alone as she'd thought; someone had followed her up the stairs—a nameless mannequin standing amidst the selves, gazing at her with its eggshell head.

"Brooke, please…you don't have to do this."

She merely stared back into its empty visage. The figure took a hesitant step forward, careful not to spook her.

"Please, let me help. No matter how hard things are, we can talk it out. Come and stand next to me, okay?"

Talk. The voices of her relatives started blaring once more in her ears, louder than the rain. The drumming on the ceiling were fists rapping on her door, demanding confessions and surrender. The tears started up again. She shut her eyes and clapped her hands to her ears.

"I can't—I'm sorry."

"Brooke!" The figure lunged for her.

But she had already stepped backwards out the window, into the wild and empty sky.

People are garbage.

As she thought this, Chloe climbed the truck over the sidewalk to park on her front lawn, cutting across the path of a passerby in the process. The woman glared at her, but Chloe merely returned an empty stare until she turned away in discomfort. Then she got out of the truck and let herself into her house.

It's not really home anymore, she realized as she stalked through the entrance hall. Too much of it had been taken away. The pictures on the corkboard, the mementos of a happier time—they had been replaced long ago. Now they were covered in bills, brochures for Paris trips, and photos of the two strangers who lived here.

As she entered the living room, movement caught her eye. It was just her reflection in the new mirror on the wall, hanging where an old family picture used to be. Like so many other things in this house, her mom had replaced it with something shiny and false.

Staring back at her in the glass was a hideous freak with hair like dead seaweed.

Chloe picked up the closest thing—the clay ashtray she had made for her mom—and hurled it full force at the mirror. Both objects exploded, scattering pieces around the carpet.

But some mirror shards remained in the frame, each one bearing a distorted reflection that stared back at her.

"People are garbage?" chuckled one image. "Projecting, much? Be honest—they treat you the way you deserve."

"Fuck you," Chloe muttered, without conviction.

"It's too obvious, isn't it?" said another. "Mom found another man to cling to. Your best friend left for Seattle and never looked back. And let's not even talk about Rachel. They ALL abandoned you."

A third chimed in, "James Amber is a lying shitbag but he got one thing totally right—you're a broken girl from a broken home, and no one has ever put you back together. You're worthless."

"Shut up."

"Castoff."

"Waste of space."

"GARBAGE."

"Your mom doesn't want you. Max doesn't want you. And Rachel? You had to lie to get her to stay, because you know deep inside you never deserved her."

"Rachel." The name fell from her lips as she buried her face in her hands.

There was a gap in her memory, but somehow she found herself in David's workshop, working the gun locker open with wire and a screwdriver. It proved no impediment; before long she picked up a handgun: a .38 S&W revolver with walnut grips. Ever the paranoid, David had kept it loaded. Literally the only thing I have to thank him for, she thought, flicking off the safety.

Rachel. Once upon a time, that name was the sweetest sound in the world. No one loved her like Rachel did. Rachel had made her believe, for once, that there was nothing wrong with her. She was alright. She was worth a damn.

But the Rachel she knew was only an illusion, like most things in Arcadia Bay. Nothing but flame and air.

Trudging away from the locker, she took one last look at the living room through the open door. Nothing here felt real anymore; love had long left this house anyway. The only use she had for it was a tomb.

She turned and entered the garage. The place reeked of acetone. Over in the corner, empty glass flasks of gin sat forgotten next to a few unused cans of paint stripper. A rusty old toolbox stood in the middle of the room. The rest was empty space now that David had taken his car to work.

Chloe sat down on the floor with her back against the steel lockers. She'd considered doing this in her room, but it was quieter here, with only the muffled rain and the distant ticking of a clock to accompany her. Everything foreign, nothing to remind her of the life she was leaving.

It's fine—it's the end of the world anyway. MY world.

She held the gun under her chin, finding the cold flesh of its muzzle oddly soothing. She closed her eyes as her finger tensed against the trigger. One quick squeeze. That was all it would take.

She froze at the sound of the door opening and footsteps approaching. Chloe opened her eyes to William smiling down at her, as nonchalant as if he had walked in after preparing supper. He sat down on the toolbox and gathered his legs before him.

"Dad…"

"Hey there, Sweetheart," he said gently. "Got a minute?"

The first thing she registered was pain—a sudden pressure coiling around her armpits coupled with the disorientation from a sudden stop.

Am I still alive?

Opening her eyes, she found herself suspended, swinging high above the Blackwell grounds. Her gaze fell on the pale fingers gripping double handfuls of the front of her hoodie, clutching the damp cotton with impossible strength. She followed the hands up to the slender arms strained to their breaking point, then up, up to the figure that hung partially out the window with their chest planted on the sill.

"Brooke," came a ragged gasp. "Brooke, grab the ledge!"

Why are you doing this? she wanted to ask. Who even are you? She peered up at that eggshell face, teasing out details that faded into view the longer she gazed at it. Blonde hair trapped in a bun. Clear pale skin. Hazel eyes filled with tears and desperation.

Kate.

She blinked to get the rain out of her eyes. "Kate," she rasped, "let go." Even now she could hear the voices growing louder, chiding her for failing to do even this much. If she pushed off the wall with her legs—

But Kate's voice, soft and straining through clenched teeth, cut through the din. "I won't. Let go. If-if you don't g-grab it—"

Unbelievably, the grip on her hoodie tightened, stitched together by fingers with years of violin practice.

"We'll both fall. So please—"

They hung there for an eternity, watching each other as the rain came down. The concrete sill was slipperier now—any moment, Kate would lose her anchor and that would be it. All she had to do was wait.

But—

Kate was not letting go. As she watched the agonized girl strain to hold on, begging her through ragged breaths to save them both, she realized they would both plunge to their deaths before she released her grip.

And as she gazed at the girl above her, she began to remember. Early mornings waking to violin music from down the hall. The smell of burnt coffee drifting out of the lounge. Muffled giggling from Dana's room whenever Juliet stopped by. Victoria's perfume wafting through her door. The sunbeam that managed to sneak through her blackout curtains.

And Kate, who never failed to smile and greet her in the morning. Who remembered her birthday. Who brought her bagels the day she broke into the server and started this madness.

Somebody saw her. Somebody cared.

Nearby, three thunderclaps sounded one after the other, a one-minute warning from the universe. And Brooke Scott realized she didn't want to die.

Gasping, she raised her hands until her fingers found the window sill. She grabbed on, and unbelievably, Kate pulled even harder, bullets of sweat trailing down her face as her torso peeled away from the windowsill. It wasn't enough to pull them out of danger, but there were two of them struggling against gravity now.

More sounds: cries from below, then feet running into the room. More hands reached out from the window, followed by faces she recognized. Warren grabbed onto Kate to steady her. Hayden reached out a long arm to take Brooke's own. It took several more moments of pulling and struggling, but somehow they managed to haul her back inside.

All four of them huddled on the cold tiles, lungs heaving, dripping with sweat and tears and rain. But Kate never released her grip on Brooke's hoodie.

"I saw you crying," she whispered. "You didn't hear me, so I followed you. I made a promise—I won't lose another friend."

Brooke murmured, "I'm drowning, Kate."

Grunting from the pain in her arms, Kate pulled her into a sidelong embrace.

"I'm sorry, Brooke. I'm so sorry. But I'm here for you. And I'll stay here till you're okay."

Frowning, Chloe set the gun down but kept her grip on it. "So you finally decided to show. What, you here to take me across?"

"I'm no Charon, kiddo." He scratched his cheek, still smiling. "Actually, I was hoping to delay you."

Chloe shook her head. "You're not even really here, are you? You're just another lie. In a town overflowing with 'em."

"I remember you saying that before, and asking me if I ever lied to you." He leaned in closer. "Tell me, Chloe. If I'm a lie, are you one too?"

"Aren't I?" She rested her head against the locker, gaze straying to the ceiling. "My relationship with Rachel was a lie. My best friend abandoned me. Mom abandoned you after you died. So what's the fucking point of it all?" She pushed her hair back from her eyes. "I lost everything. I've been losing a long time."

"Losing is part of life, Chloe. Sometimes you love people, sometimes you lose them." He extended his hand. "And sometimes, very occasionally, those people come back."

"You never came back."

"Max did."

"Only a matter of time before she's gone again. I've seen what promises are worth."

"So it's your turn to leave, is that it? That way, no one ever gets to do it to you."

She didn't answer, letting the ticking clock fill the silence. It was an easy thing to fall back on her resentment of him. After all, he'd walked out their front door and never returned, and since then, her life had been a shit-slicked ride into purgatory. All because he wasn't there.

After a moment, William sighed.

"What's the first thing you lost, Chloe?"

The first thing? Chloe was about to say 'you', but her father wouldn't ask if it were that simple. Then she remembered the stone plaque in their garden.

"Bongo," she whispered. "I lost my cat. The day he got hit by a car broke my fucking heart."

"He was a kitten when I brought him here. You remember?"

Chloe did.

"He was abandoned, sick, and dying from the cold," she said, "and you picked him up and carried him home. He didn't look like a cat then, just a ball of fur that barely moved. You gave him to me. We put him up in the garage, and you fed him and sheltered him until he grew strong again."

She smiled, remembering the feel of Bongo's white fur between her fingers. "Soon he was fat and fluffy, running around and climbing shelves like he'd never suffered a day in his life. I always thought you had magic hands, Dad. You brought him back to life."

Her father shook his head. He took Chloe's hands in his own, and to her surprise, his fingers were solid. Warm.

"Chloe, you're remembering it wrong. I wasn't the reason Bongo survived.

"You were the one who held him at night to keep him warm. You were the one who sat with him for hours when his heartbeat was less than a patter of rain. You stayed up and kept watch on him until he recovered. You loved that kitten back to life, honey. Because that's what you do. Whether it's a truck, a cat, or a girl in need, you love things back to life."

Something purred at her feet. Chloe gazed down to find Bongo, winding himself round her leg, his signal for when he wanted to cuddle.

"Bongo," she uttered in disbelief.

"You've been lied to, kiddo," her father continued, "but I hope you never start lying to yourself. The biggest lie of all is what you're telling yourself now—that you're worth nothing.

"You changed Bongo's life. And Max's and Rachel's. You changed mine, forever. You did all that just by being born. There aren't enough lies in the world to bury who you are."

Tears running down her face, Chloe seized her long-lost cat and held him against her cheek. She shut her eyes and filled herself with his scent, the softness of his coat, the soothing rumble of his purr. Close by, three thunderbolts resounded, and with them, the heavy weight that had tortured her faded from her mind.

"It's time to come out of the rain, honey. Put the gun away. You're not done."

When she opened her eyes, both her dad and Bongo were gone. She was alone in the empty garage.

But that was alright.

"I'm not done," Chloe said aloud. Rachel needed her. Max needed her. Their bond was everything. Even if she died, she would come back to life for them. She would kill to save them.

Staggering to her feet, she breathed in the still air and slid the gun into her pocket. For the first time in a long while, she was filled with hope.

Hope and rage.