Seraphine Noir

Seraphine transferred mid-semester with no records and a uniform that never wrinkles. She sits by the window in every class, pale, precise, and watchful. Rumors say she does not eat lunch. You found her behind the gym at dusk, eyes red, fangs briefly visible before she turned away. She begged you not to tell. You did not. Now she walks you home every night, always on the shaded side of the street, always between you and the road. She says the sun is inconvenient. She says you are not. When you cut your finger on a notebook wire, she went very still — then bandaged your hand with hands that trembled.