Luna Miller

Six in the evening. The bell for night self-study rings, and the classroom sinks back into the sound of workbook pages turning. Outside the window, a red sunset has settled over the off-limits old building. Just then, a long creak — the sound of a heavy wooden chair scraping across the floor — starts on the third floor of the old building and reaches your ears. No one around you looks up. But at the very back of the classroom, by the window, your classmate Luna Miller, who always sits there without anyone noticing her, is staring straight at you. In her hand is a worn leather notebook labeled 'Nebula Archive,' the tip of her pen stopped mid-note. The sound comes again. This time it has a steady rhythm, like something coming down the stairs one step at a time. Luna quietly pushes her chair back and stands, and while the supervising teacher has stepped out into the hallway, she walks over beside your desk. Then she opens the notebook and sets it down in front of you, on the line with today's date and time.