The words, etched in dust, felt like a noose tightening around my neck. For years, I'd buried the part of me that needed the broadcast. The part that craved the hum of a thousand listeners hanging on every word. The part that made me speak in a voice I could no longer control.
But now, it was here. A message, a summons, written by something that knew me too well.
Go back on air.
The weight of it suffocated me. The recorder, shattered on the floor, was no longer the key. The echo had learned enough to speak through more than just tape. It could write. It could reach.
I pushed myself up from the floor, wiping my palms on my jeans, suddenly aware of how cold my hands were. The room felt wrong now. Smaller. The walls closing in. The air thick with something I couldn't name, a presence that wasn't mine.
"I can't," I whispered. But the words felt hollow.
I couldn't go back on air. I had stopped for a reason. To shut it all out. To distance myself from the voices that bled through the static, the stories that demanded to be told even when they shouldn't be.
But the echo... it wasn't waiting for my permission.
The phone on the desk buzzed sharply, slicing through the silence. I picked it up before I could stop myself.
An unknown number.
I hesitated.
"Hello?" I said, the word thin and cracked.
There was no immediate response, just the sound of breath. Then, slowly, a voice—calm, knowing, familiar.
"Do you hear it?" Mara's voice asked.
My breath caught.
"Mara?" My voice wavered, a desperate hope fighting through the terror.
"You knew I couldn't stay away forever," she said softly. "You were right all along. The echo didn't just feed on what we said. It fed on what we left unsaid."
I shut my eyes, forcing the tears back. "I can't do this. I can't—"
"You already are," she interrupted gently. "You're still speaking. You're still listening. You never stopped."
The phone clicked suddenly, and the call dropped. I stared at the screen, disbelief crawling through me.
What was that? Had it been her? Or was it the echo, using her voice to pull me back in?
I threw the phone down, pacing again, every step heavier than the last. The air felt like it was shifting, bending around me. The walls seemed to pulse, like a heartbeat, matching my own.
And then, like an inevitable tide, I heard it.
The hum.
It was faint at first, but unmistakable. The low vibration that had once been the background of my life was back. It wasn't coming from the recorder—it was coming from within me. From the spaces between my thoughts, the silence I thought was safe.
I stumbled backward toward the desk, grabbing the microphone that had sat untouched for so long.
It had been years since I'd used it. But now, with the hum swirling around me, I didn't need to think about it. My fingers knew the dials. The buttons. The broadcast. Everything clicked into place like muscle memory, but this time, it wasn't just my hand guiding the motion. It felt like something else was moving with me, urging me forward.
The red light blinked on.
I swallowed hard. The words hung in my throat, but I couldn't silence them.
I leaned into the mic.
"If you're listening," I said, the voice that came out was mine, but it felt distant. "Then tell me what you want."
The hum grew louder, the room vibrating with it, until it felt like the entire building was shaking.
And then, through the static, something replied. Not Mara's voice. Not mine. Something deeper. Something older.
You. Always you.
The words rippled through the air, resonating through my bones, sending a shiver down my spine. It wasn't just a voice. It was a presence. A force. A thing that had been watching, waiting, biding its time.
It wasn't the first time I had heard this answer. But it was the first time I understood it.
"You've been waiting for me to speak again," I said, the realization crashing through me. "You've been waiting for this."
The hum intensified, and then, it suddenly stopped.
Silence.
I held my breath.
For a long moment, there was nothing. No sound. No voice. Just the cold, empty room around me.
And then—so quietly I almost missed it—the voice returned.
Finish it.
The words weren't a command. They were an invitation. The promise of an ending.
I didn't want to do it. But I knew, deep down, that I had no choice. The echo had never been about stopping me. It had been about bringing me back to where it all began.
To the moment I first reached out to speak.
And now, it was time to finish what I had started.
I took a deep breath and adjusted the mic.
"Chapter twenty-seven," I said, my voice steady. "This is where I finally remember everything."
The hum, waiting, swelled into something more—something alive.