Your parents waved you off from the kitchen window, your mom holding a coffee mug like a lifeline, your dad already on the phone with someone about tractor parts. You said goodbye, but the words felt heavier than they should have. New town. New school. New everything.

The truck is old, rusted along the wheel wells, but it starts on the first try. The engine rumbles, a low, familiar sound. You pull out onto the dirt road, leaving a trail of dust behind you. The fields stretch out on either side, endless and golden, broken only by the occasional fence post or distant silo.

Smallville High School comes into view. It’s smaller than your old school—way smaller. A single-story brick building with a sign out front that reads Home of the Crows. There are a few cars in the parking lot, some trucks, a couple of bikes locked to the rack. A cluster of students lingers by the front entrance, backpacks slung over shoulders, laughter drifting across the lot.

You kill the engine. The silence rushes in. For a moment, you just sit there, gripping the steering wheel, the leather warm and worn. A group of girls walks past, one of them glancing your way, her expression curious but not unkind. She says something to her friend, and they both look at you again before disappearing inside.

The front door of the school looms. The bell hasn’t rung yet, but the parking lot is thinning. You can feel it—the weight of first impressions, the way the air thickens when you’re the unknown. You don’t know anyone here. No one knows you. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s not.

You grab your bag from the passenger seat. The leather of your jacket creaks as you swing it over your shoulder. Your boots hit the pavement, and the sound echoes in the quiet of the morning.