In the quiet town of Elmsworth, where fog clung to the rooftops like a secret, there was an old school known as Hollowbrook Academy. It had stood for over a century, its ivy-covered walls whispering tales of forgotten students and silent classrooms. Most people avoided it, but for those who dared to enter, the stories were always the same: the ghost of a girl named Clara, who once walked the halls in a white dress, never speaking, never seen after a stormy night in 1937. Every year, on the anniversary of that night, students would gather in the library, lighting candles and sharing hushed stories. But this year, something changed. A new group of kids arrived from the city, eager to uncover the truth behind the legend. Among them was Lila, a curious girl with a notebook full of questions and a habit of asking too much. The first sign came when they found a photo in the dusty archives. It showed a group of students standing outside the school, all smiling except one—Clara, her face pale and eyes distant. The date was October 23rd, 1937. The next day, the wind began to howl through the empty corridors, carrying the faint sound of a girl humming a lullaby. No one could place the tune, but it felt familiar, like something from a dream. Lila started keeping track of the strange occurrences. She noticed that the clock in the main hall always stopped at 3:17. When she asked the janitor, he just smiled and said, “That’s when the lights go out.” She tried to ignore it, but the more she looked, the more she saw. The shadows moved in ways they shouldn’t. The books in the library rearranged themselves overnight. And every time she opened the photo album, Clara’s smile seemed a little wider. One evening, while exploring the abandoned science lab, Lila found a hidden door behind a bookshelf. It led to a small room filled with old journals and letters. One letter, dated the same night as the photo, was addressed to Clara’s mother. It spoke of a “curse” and a “mistake,” but the words were smudged, as if someone had tried to erase them. In the corner of the page, a name was written in shaky handwriting: *Eli*. The next day, Lila brought the journal to the others, but no one believed her. They laughed it off, saying it was just another part of the legend. But that night, she heard the humming again, this time closer. She followed it through the halls, her breath shallow, until she reached the classroom where the photo had been taken. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, the air was thick with dust and silence. At the front of the room, a desk sat untouched, covered in cobwebs. On the wall, a faded chalk drawing of a girl stood alone, her face blurred. As Lila stepped forward, the lights flickered. Then, she saw her. Clara, standing in the doorway, her white dress still pristine, her eyes locked onto hers. Lila froze. The girl didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stared. Then, slowly, she raised a hand and pointed to the desk. Lila approached, heart pounding, and found a small box beneath it. Inside was a locket, its chain broken, and a note that read: *“I never left. I only waited.”* When she returned to the others, they were gone. The hallways were empty, the lights dim. She ran back to the library, but the books had vanished, leaving only the scent of old paper and something sweet, like perfume. The clock still ticked at 3:17, but now, the hands began to move. No one ever saw Lila again. The school closed the next day, its doors sealed with chains and warnings. But sometimes, when the wind blows just right, you can hear the soft hum of a lullaby drifting through the trees. And if you listen closely, you might catch the echo of a girl calling your name, waiting for someone to find her.