Chapter 1: The Ghost of Greenwood Elementary

The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Elara Castillo's downtown apartment, casting golden rectangles across her sleek hardwood floors. She stretched languidly in her king-sized bed, her engagement ring catching the sunlight and throwing tiny rainbows against the white walls. Life was perfect—almost disgustingly so.

At twenty-eight, Elara had everything she'd once only dared to dream about. Her graphic design firm was thriving, her client list read like a who's who of Fortune 500 companies, and her fiancé Marcus was everything her teenage self had fantasized about: kind, successful, and completely devoted to her. The girl who'd once been mocked for her secondhand clothes now wore designer everything, her natural beauty enhanced rather than hidden.

She padded to the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the cool marble, and started her morning ritual. French press coffee, Greek yogurt with fresh berries, and a quick scroll through her phone while the city awakened below.

The notification appeared innocuous enough—a message request on Instagram from someone named "AiaA_Advocate." The profile picture showed a polished Black woman with perfectly styled braids and a radiant smile. Elara almost swiped it away as spam until she read the name in the message.

Hi Elara! It's Aia Adebayo from Greenwood Elementary. I hope you remember me! I'm helping organize our 20-year reunion and would love to personally invite you. It would mean so much to have everyone there. Hope you're doing well! xoxo

The coffee mug slipped from Elara's fingers, shattering against the marble with a sound like breaking bones.

Aia Adebayo.

The name hit her like a physical blow, dragging her back twenty years in an instant. Suddenly she wasn't standing in her perfect kitchen anymore—she was eight years old again, small and vulnerable, surrounded by a circle of laughing children while Aia stood at their center like a queen holding court.

"Look at her ugly drawing! She thinks she's an artist!"

"Why is your skin that weird color? Are you dirty?"

"My mom says people like you don't belong here."

The memories crashed over her in waves. The torn sketch of a butterfly she'd spent hours perfecting. The racial slurs whispered just quietly enough that teachers couldn't hear. The day Aia had convinced the other kids to destroy every piece of artwork in Elara's desk, leaving her sobbing over the shredded remains of her dreams.

Elara's hands began to shake as she stared at the message. There was Aia's face, all grown up and beautiful, radiating the same confident charm that had made her so dangerous as a child. The bio read: "Public Relations Director | Social Justice Advocate | Making the world more inclusive, one conversation at a time ❤️"

Social justice advocate.

The irony was so thick it was nauseating.

Elara's vision blurred, but not with tears—with something darker. Something that had been sleeping in her chest for twenty years, waiting. The little girl who had learned to swallow her pain and smile through the humiliation was gone. In her place stood a woman who had clawed her way to success, who had learned to fight for every inch of respect and recognition.

Her phone buzzed again. A follow-up message:

I know we were just kids, but I'd really love to catch up! I've been doing a lot of work around restorative justice and healing from childhood experiences. I think we could have such a meaningful conversation! Can't wait to see you there! 💕

Restorative justice. Healing from childhood experiences.

The audacity was breathtaking.

Elara set her phone down carefully, her movements precise and controlled. She could feel something fundamental shifting inside her, like tectonic plates finding a new alignment. The Elara who had spent years in therapy learning to let go, to forgive, to move on—that woman was retreating.

In her place, something else was awakening.

She walked to her home office, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, and sat down at her computer. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she pulled up Aia's social media profiles. Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, Twitter—all of them painting the same picture of a successful, socially conscious woman fighting the good fight.

There were photos of Aia at charity galas, speaking at diversity conferences, posing with local politicians. Her LinkedIn showed an impressive career trajectory in public relations, specializing in crisis management and reputation repair. The irony wasn't lost on Elara—the woman who had spent her childhood destroying others now made her living fixing broken images.

But it was Aia's personal posts that made Elara's blood run cold. Lengthy captions about the importance of standing up to bullies. Shares of articles about childhood trauma and its lasting effects. A viral post from last year about how "we must do better as a society to protect our most vulnerable children from those who would harm them."

Thousands of likes. Hundreds of comments praising her wisdom and compassion.

They had no idea.

Elara's phone rang, startling her from her research. Marcus's name flashed on the screen, along with a photo of his warm smile.

"Morning, beautiful," his voice was honey-smooth through the speaker. "Just wanted to hear your voice before my first meeting. How's my future wife doing?"

The normalcy of his tone, the casual affection, felt jarring after the violence of her memories. For a moment, Elara couldn't find her voice.

"Elara? You there?"

"I'm here," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "Just... processing something."

"Everything okay? You sound off."

She looked back at her computer screen, at Aia's smiling face surrounded by adoring comments. "Someone from elementary school reached out about a reunion."

"That's nice! Anyone you were close to?"

A laugh escaped her throat, sharp and humorless. "You could say that."

There was a pause. Marcus knew about her childhood, knew about the bullying and the therapy and the years it had taken her to feel comfortable in her own skin. But he didn't know the details. Didn't know about the specific girl who had orchestrated it all with the skill of a seasoned psychological warfare expert.

"Do you want to talk about it?" His voice was gentle, concerned.

"Not yet," Elara said, and she meant it. This was something she needed to process alone. "I love you."

"Love you too. We'll talk tonight?"

After hanging up, Elara sat in the silence of her perfect apartment, staring at Aia's message. The reunion was in three weeks. Three weeks to decide whether to face her past or continue living in the safety of her constructed present.

But even as she considered ignoring the invitation, deleting the message and pretending it never happened, she knew it was too late. The door to her past had been opened, and there was no closing it now.

The little girl inside her—the one who had never gotten justice, never gotten an apology, never gotten anything but years of therapy to learn how to cope—was stirring. And she was hungry.

Elara's fingers hovered over her keyboard. She could write back, politely decline. She could block Aia and return to her perfect life. She could be the bigger person, the healed person, the person her therapist would be proud of.

Instead, she typed: Hi Aia! What a surprise to hear from you. I'd love to catch up. Count me in for the reunion.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself.

The woman who had destroyed her childhood was about to learn what the girl she'd broken had grown up to become. And this time, Elara wouldn't be the one left crying over scattered pieces.

This time, she would be the one holding the knife.