Two weeks had passed.
April had learned to navigate the apartment by memory—counting steps, feeling along the walls, using her cane.
It wasn't perfect, but it was better than nothing.
The silence was the hardest part.
April had grown used to hearing something—the hum of the fridge, the distant chatter of neighbors, the soft patter of rain. But now, there was only emptiness.
A void where sound used to be.
Until tonight.
It started as a whisper.
A faint tick. A vibration in the air.
April paused, sitting up in bed.
Was that… sound?
April focused.
There it was again. The softest rustling of fabric. The creak of old wood.
The rhythmic beat of a pulse—her own heartbeat.
Her breath hitched.
She could hear.
No—it wasn't hearing. It was something else. Something deeper.
April turned her head, and suddenly, she saw it.
A faint outline in the darkness. The walls of her apartment, the curve of the table, the window where the wind whispered against the glass.
But it wasn't sight. It was echoes.
April lifted a hand, waving it slowly. The air shifted, and the shape of her fingers formed in her mind, traced by soundwaves she couldn't explain.
Her heart pounded.
"What the hell is happening to me?"
April didn't sleep that night.
April spent hours moving, testing, experimenting.
A snap of her fingers—sound rippling outward, bouncing off walls, giving her a shape of the room.
A tap of her foot—the floor stretching in her mind, revealing the furniture, the edges of her world.
She wasn't blind. Not really.
She could see in a way no one else could.
April didn't understand it, but one thing was clear—this wasn't normal.
This was something else.
Something buried inside her skull.
And she needed to know why.