“Did you hear? The class is starting anew.” A whisper echoed, barely discernible, yet wrapped tight around us as we navigated the solemn halls.
Back then, under stretched fluorescent lights of mismatched hue and vintage, winter fell over memories like an omnipresent cloak. Teachers, once revered, now shadows with voices fading in corridors, thrumming like old engines between classes.
“Perhaps it's safe after hours.” The voice belonged to someone we never knew, comforted by strangeness, lured children astray in those murmur-filled passages. Grainy whispers intertwining like polished ribbons, pulling in threads of now so spotless and sterile.