The school hallway buzzes with an unusual energy on Thursday morning, the air thick with whispers and the shuffle of sneakers. Ella, Roxana, and Eileen weave through the crowd, their backpacks heavy, their minds still foggy from yesterday’s revelations. A hand-painted sign taped to the wall catches their eye: PLEASE GO TO THE AUDITORIUM FOR SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENTS.

“What’s going on?” Ella asks, her brow furrowing.

“Looks like everyone’s heading to the auditorium,” Roxana observes, her voice tinged with unease.

As they enter the cavernous room, the hum of confusion greets them. Students mill about, claiming seats on the worn velvet chairs, their faces a mix of curiosity and dread. Some cluster in tight groups, murmuring; others sit alone, eyes glassy or red-rimmed. A few girls in the front row cling to each other, tears streaking their cheeks.

“This is bad news,” Eileen says, her voice low, a shadow of fear crossing her face. “I can feel it.”

“I wonder who died?” Roxana murmurs, her eyes already welling up, anticipating the worst.

A heavy dread settles over the girls as they slide into a row near the back, their hearts pounding in unison.

The auditorium lights dim slightly, and Principal Martinez steps onto the stage, her face pale, her hands gripping the podium. Her voice cracks as she begins, each word a struggle. “Good morning, students,” she says, her tone faltering. “I have very sad news to share. Around 2 a.m., I was contacted by the chief of police about an incident that occurred near midnight. It involves some of our high school students, and it will affect our community deeply.”

She pauses, steadying herself. “Police and paramedics were called to a residence where several students were holding an unauthorized party. They were consuming alcohol, and one student brought opioid painkillers, reportedly from a dental prescription. These pills were shared, causing intoxication when mixed with alcohol.”

She continues, her voice tightening. “Later, additional pills were introduced. They appeared identical to the first but were counterfeit, laced with a substance over a thousand times more potent. Some students, chasing their high, took multiple doses. It was fatal.”

A gasp ripples through the room. Principal Martinez’s eyes glisten. “Despite heroic efforts by EMTs using CPR and anti-opioid medication, three students were pronounced dead.”

The names hit like blows: “Shelly Boyd, a beloved cheerleader and honor student, has passed away. James Reagan, a star athlete and glee club captain, has passed away. Ronald Jackson, a senior and exceptional scholar, has passed away.” She adds, “Five other students are hospitalized, and may face criminal charges.”

The auditorium falls silent, the weight of disbelief pressing down. Students glance around, searching for a sign this is a cruel prank.

Ella’s throat tightens, a lump so large she can’t speak. She taps Roxana and Eileen, motioning toward the exit. They slip out, the cool hallway air a sharp contrast to the stifling grief inside.

“Those kids lived on our street,” Ella says, her voice trembling as they step into the morning light. “I woke up last night, wondering why sirens were so close. Three people we saw every day—gone. I don’t know how to process this. Let’s walk to my house. I need to talk to Mom, and Helana.”

The walk is quiet, the town’s familiar streets—lined with neat lawns and blooming dogwoods—feeling alien under the shadow of loss. At Ella’s house, a cozy craftsman with a porch swing creaking in the breeze, they find her mom in the kitchen, the TV murmuring news of the tragedy.

“Mom!” Ella cries, rushing into her arms. “Shelly, James, and Ronny are dead!”

Roxana and Eileen follow, their faces etched with sorrow. Ella’s mom envelops them in a hug, her voice soft. “I know, sweetie. It’s all over the news. I’m so sorry. The school has counselors if you need to talk. I can take you.”

“No,” Ella says, pulling back. “We have all the counselors we need right here. We’ll be upstairs. We need quiet time.”

In Ella’s room, the girls collapse onto the bed, the pastel walls and stuffed animals a jarring contrast to their mood. They sit in silence, avoiding each other’s eyes, their minds numb, thoughts tangled in shock. The faint scent of Ella’s lavender candle does little to soothe the ache.

Minutes stretch into eternity until Ella’s voice breaks the quiet, small and desperate. “Helana?” she asks, staring at the Aladdin’s lamp bottle on her nightstand. “What happens when we die? Where are my friends? Can you see them?”

Helana’s voice, soft and sympathetic, hums in their minds, her translucent form faintly visible. “I’m sorry, Ella. I can’t see them. I can glimpse some spiritual domains, but there are millions—most are beyond me. It hurts me to see you so sad. I’m not sure what happens when you die here, but I can share what my people believe in our domain. It might be similar.”

“Tell me,” Ella says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“In my world, there’s no physical death,” Helana begins. “After centuries, some choose to move to another domain, like your death, but it’s deliberate. We rarely return to the same domain—it’s frowned upon. In your world, you’re born physical, then become spirit at death, like us. But since you’re less aware of your spiritual nature, your spirit can be confused, not understanding what’s happened. It might stay here as an earthbound spirit or move to one of countless domains—each a complete world.”

“What do you mean, ‘connected to soul’?” Roxana asks, her voice thick with emotion.

“My spirit—what I am—and yours are temporal, unique, with a beginning and end,” Helana explains. “Soul is eternal, a collective of all spirits, the mind of the One Infinite Creator, the source of the Grand Originating Thought that birthed existence. When a spirit connects to soul, it joins the Creator’s mind, preserving all memories, thoughts, and feelings forever. Soul’s life force sustains the spirit. Without that connection, a spirit fades, its timeline ends, and its essence is lost.”

“So our friends could just… cease to exist?” Eileen asks, her voice trembling.

“Connection to soul is usually automatic,” Helana says. “Only the truly evil disconnect. A spark of love, kindness, or godlike qualities ensures soul’s acceptance. Your friends were foolish with those drugs, but I doubt they were evil. Still, spirits migrate to domains that resonate with their nature. If they were cruel, they might end up in a harsh domain—not fun.”

“Like hell?” Ella asks, her eyes narrowing.

“Not the hell of your stories,” Helana says. “But if you believe you deserve punishment, there are hellish domains. In spiritual realms, we create our own heaven or hell, and to some extent, we do that here too.”

Ella sighs, her shoulders slumping. “That doesn’t help. I miss them. I want to see them, yell at them for being so stupid. I don’t want them gone.”

“I know,” Helana says gently. “Our scholars study this for lifetimes, but it rarely eases daily pain. I believe those I’ve lost are somewhere, alive in another domain, but I still miss them.”

Roxana wipes her eyes. “Some of what you said is like my church’s teachings, but most isn’t. My priest would be upset I’m listening, but I love you, so I’ll honor your beliefs.”

“It’s a bit like what my dad reads about ETs and channelers,” Eileen says. “But also different. Roxana’s right—channelers can be sketchy, maybe tied to tricksters or demons.”

Helana’s tone grows cautious. “These are my world’s teachings, much of it speculative. We have psychics and channelers too, drawing from higher beings, but even that’s guesswork. After billions of years, higher beings still don’t grasp the One Infinite Creator’s mind or the Mystery of Existence—why anything exists. Anyone claiming to know is mistaken or lying.”

“One more thing,” Roxana says. “Did those spirit bugs make them take the drugs?”

“They might’ve been influenced,” Helana says. “Intoxication attracts earthbound spirits who crave that energy, pushing users to consume more. But here, I think your friends just made a mistake—they didn’t know the pills were laced.”

Ella’s frustration boils over. “Enough. I respect your beliefs, Helana, but these are theories, not answers. I’m starving—let’s see if Mom can cook. I need you here, but I need quiet to process and cry.”

“Sounds good,” Roxana says, her voice soft.

“Me too,” Eileen agrees. “When are the funerals? Maybe they’ll let us out of school. It’s the only way to say goodbye.”

Downstairs, Roxana’s and Eileen’s moms have arrived, joining Ella’s mom in the kitchen. The clatter of pots and the warm aroma of baking cornbread fill the house, a quiet gesture of support for their daughters’ grief.

In the stillness of her room, Ella opens her diary, the weight of loss pressing on her chest.