One Beat of Wings

I took the sub gig because I needed the money. And because no one else would. That district has a long memory, and a short list of options.

They placed me in a clean school across town. White walls. New floors. Fluorescent lights that didn’t flicker. The kind of school where they polished everything weekly and hid the broken stuff out back. The kids were fine. A little too well-behaved. Their quiet didn’t come from good parenting. It came from whispered warnings. They looked at me like I was a headline they weren’t supposed to bring up.

Nobody said anything about the other school. The one up the ridge. They didn’t have to.

It was still there. Still rotting. Still a part of the town everyone walked around like it was a hole in the sidewalk.

I hadn’t been back in years. Long enough to think maybe I was done with it. But the town pulls at you. Little things. The angle of a streetlight. The way the fog rolls in. A cat staring too long.

Three days in, I found myself walking the old route after work. The bell had rung. The kids were gone. My feet took me there before my head had time to argue.

The road twisted uphill. Sidewalk cracked and uneven. Grass pushing through where the concrete had given up. Faded spray paint on one wall: some kind of sigil or tag, maybe both. Everything looked ten degrees more abandoned than it should have. Trash piled against fences. A sneaker nailed to a post. A crow circling above the ridge like it had nothing better to do.

The school came into view.

Three stories, brown brick, sagging like a drunk leaning on a bar. Windows smashed or boarded. Paint curled from the frames like skin after a sunburn. Ivy grew sideways along the fence but never climbed the building. Like even plants knew not to touch it.

The gate wasn’t locked. It never had been. I pushed it open. The hinges moaned, like they wanted me to go away.

The yard was choked with weeds. Someone had dumped a couch out front. Cats lounged on it like royalty. They watched me, didn’t move. I stepped over an old fast food bag and something unrecognizable with bones.

The door still worked. Kind of. It leaned, but it opened.

Inside, the air hit me like a wet towel. Mold, ammonia, stale animal breath. A place that had stopped pretending to rot gracefully.

The hallway stretched ahead. Shadowed. The lights hadn’t worked in years. Paint flaked from the walls in sheets. Floor tiles popped up underfoot. I passed closed doors, each one warped and tagged with dust. Some had papers still taped to them—memos from a time when this place tried to pretend it was still functioning.

I walked past the classroom. The one.

Didn’t stop. Didn’t look.

I went up the stairs. The rail was sticky from years of grime. On the landing to the third floor, a piece of yellow caution tape still fluttered, stuck under peeling paint. I stepped over it.

The roof door opened with a dry scrape.

The air outside was thicker. The fog had started creeping in from the harbor. The roof sloped slightly toward the edge. Moss grew in the corners. In the middle, the concrete buckled in a lazy hump—right where it had happened.

I walked to the edge.

Below, the bamboo grove was still there. Denser. Taller. Wild. It hadn’t been trimmed since the school closed. The stalks waved slightly even though there was no wind.

That’s where the kid landed. Broke through the first stalks. The thick ones didn’t break. They went through him.

They said he died instantly. I told that to the parents. Told it to the staff. Told it to myself. Enough times to make it sound like truth. But I never really knew. I wasn’t up there when it happened. I only saw the aftermath. Him lying there. Bent wrong. Blood pooling in the grass. Kids screaming from the windows.

Some said he jumped. Some said he tripped. Some said something pulled him.

I said it was a warped roof. Bad maintenance. Heat. Moisture. Expansion. A freak accident.

No one believed me. Not really.

I stood there until my knees ached. Then I turned back and went down.

The door to the classroom was still shut. One panel of the window cracked down the middle. I looked through.

Dust. Desks flipped. Chairs scattered. The board was covered in old marks—deep scratches, not chalk. Something had clawed it. Maybe a student. Maybe not. Something else.

I opened the door. The smell was worse inside. Thick and earthy. Rot, maybe. Or fur. The air didn’t move.

I stepped in.

The classroom felt smaller than I remembered. Like the walls had closed in. I walked to the window. Looked out. Fog covered half the grove now. The rest was shadow.

I turned and looked around for something sharp. One window had a jagged edge left. Just long enough. I walked over. Sat on the teacher’s desk. Rolled up my sleeve.

I didn’t feel scared. Just tired. Like I’d reached the end of something and there wasn’t anything past it.

I leaned forward.

The floor dropped.

No sound. Just gone.

I hit once, then again. Cracked ribs. Something hot and sharp in my side. The air left me. The ground didn’t catch me so much as hold me badly.

I couldn’t move. Could barely blink. Blood trickled out the corner of my mouth. I felt it run down into my collar.

Above me, the hole was just a black square. Framed by rotted floorboards and peeling ceiling.

Then he was there.

The boy.

He stood at the edge. Looking down. Not angry. Not sad. Just watching. Calm. Hands in pockets. Clothes clean. Face the same as that day.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

I heard him anyway.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

That’s all. Not forgiveness. Just fact.

I hadn’t pushed him. I hadn’t known he was up there. I hadn’t locked the door. I hadn’t stopped him.

But I hadn’t grieved either. I’d rationalized it. Compartmentalized it. Filed it away like paperwork.

I felt it break open now. The guilt. Not sharp. Just constant. Like a background noise I’d forgotten was always playing.

Behind him, the sky changed.

Dark wings spread.

The bird came.

It floated above the school. Too big. Too still. Wings wider than the roof. No sound. No effort. Just there. A shape darker than the dark.

The boy looked up. He smiled. A full smile. Peaceful. Honest.

Then he vanished.

The roof empty again.

I felt the pain leave in pieces. First the leg. Then the arm. Then the chest. Cold climbed up from my feet, slow and deliberate. My breathing slowed. The blood ran warm down my side. I stopped feeling it.

Somewhere above, claws clicked on linoleum. The cats had come in. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were gathering. They always did. They knew when to show up.

The air thinned.

I heard the wings again.

One beat.

Then nothing.