Page 17 of Hidden Echoes

“Do you know how to put these on?” I ask cautiously, already bracing myself for her answer.

She shakes her head, looking up at me with wide, earnest eyes. “Not really. But you can show me, right?”

I groan internally. Of course. Why wouldn’t I have to teach her how to dress, too? “Alright, listen up. It’s not rocket science. The leggings—those are for your legs. One leg in each side, like this.” I motion awkwardly, demonstrating on my own pants. “And the sweatshirt goes over your head. Arms in the sleeves. Got it?”

She nods, her expression serious, like she’s taking notes in her head. “Got it.”

“Okay,” I say, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll give you some space to figure it out. Just call me if you get stuck.”

I leave the room, shutting the door behind me, and lean against the wall, running a hand through my hair. This day just keeps getting weirder. I mean, how do you even explain this situation to someone without sounding insane? “Oh yeah, I taught a girl how to shower and dress today because she’s been locked in confinement her whole life.” Yeah, totally normal.

After a few minutes of silence, I decide to check on her, just to make sure she hasn’t gotten tangled in the clothes or something. I knock lightly before cracking the door open.

“Mia?” I call softly.

The sight that greets me stops me in my tracks. She’s not tangled in the clothes. In fact, she’s not even awake. She’s curled up on the bed, still wrapped in the towel, fast asleep.

Her face is peaceful, her lips slightly parted, her damp hair spilling across the pillow. She looks so small, so innocent, like a child who’s finally had a long day of running around and just collapsed into sleep.

I step into the room quietly, grabbing the blanket folded at the foot of the bed. As carefully as I can, I drape it over her, tucking it around her shoulders. She stirs slightly, murmuring something I can’t quite catch, but she doesn’t wake up.

I stand there for a moment, just watching her breathe. It feels weird, almost invasive, but I can’t seem to pull myself away. She looks so vulnerable, so utterly defenseless, and it hits me—this girl is trusting me, a stranger, to take care of her. To keep her safe.

And I’m not sure if I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair as I back out of the room, closing the door softly behind me. Leaning against the wall, I let my head fall back and stare at the ceiling.

“I’m so screwed,” I mutter to myself.

Because no matter how much I tell myself this isn’t my problem, that I didn’t sign up for this, I know deep down that I can’t walk away.

Not now. Not from her.

CHAPTER 5

ZANE

PAST

Sometimes, life finds the most twistedways to mess with us. For me, it chose to shatter my world by breaking my mother in half.

And yet, through all of it, I can’t shake this strange, persistent feeling of not belonging.

Everyone around me seems to have someone, even if they deny it or put on the façade of loneliness. Deep down, they know their person is out there. Even Abby—the closest thing I have to a best friend in this godforsaken town—has someone.

But Abby... she’s special to me. Not that it means I’m special to her in return.

When we were younger, I used to have a little crush on Abigail. It made sense in my head—we were born the same year, grew up together. We fit, or so I thought. But I’m not the person she wants. That honor goes to my grumpy, perpetually brooding brother, Kyle. And you know what? That’s fine.

I still fake a crush on her sometimes, just to annoy Kyle. It’s funny watching him get all defensive.

Abby, though—she’s not subtle. Even now, she’s staring at some blonde girl on her phone screen like the girl’s the second coming of Christ. It’s almost hilarious how obvious she is. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, but I do. She’s looking for Kyle in other people.

Not that Kyle is some kind of prize, mind you. He’s a complete ass most of the time. But if Kyle were a girl? He’d probably look exactly like Gia—dark clothes, sharp glare, that same aura of someone who thrives in chaos. It’s almost poetic.

That desperate need to connect with someone, to feel whole by being with another person? It’s never happened to me.

And it’s not because of my mother, even though she turned into a hollow shell of a woman after my father died. No, I’ve always been this way. Born empty.

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