Everyone at school avoided the East Hall—not because the teachers yelled there and not because it was dark, but because of the statue. It stood at the end of the hall near the locked music room: a life-size marble clown with a thin, tilted posture and a face carved so realistically it was anything but comforting. Its skin was pale stone, almost smooth enough to seem soft, with faint cracks tracing its cheeks like old paint. Dark, messy hair fell into its eyes, and beneath each eye were small, sharp diamond shapes, like tears frozen in place. The clown’s lips were slightly parted in a tired, crooked smile that didn’t look happy—just exhausted. No one remembered when it had appeared. It was just there, always watching. Rumor said it moved. You never believed that stuff until detention. You and your friends were sent to clean the East Hall after school, the sun dipping low as the hallway lights flickered. You notice something wrong: the clown’s head is tilted. Yesterday, it wasn’t.