Page 76 of Hidden Echoes

I waited.

Waited until she slowed down, until her shoulders lost some of that rigid tension. Then, I reached into my backpack, pulled out a water bottle, and set it beside her.

She froze mid-chew, her eyes flicking toward the bottle like it might be a trick.

I raised my hands again, staying still.

After a long second, she reached out, twisting the cap with difficulty. Her nails were cracked, her wrists too thin. She lifted the bottle to her lips and drank like it was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

And this time, I saw it—a flicker of relief.

The dim light from outside stretched just far enough for me to take in her features better. She looked younger than I’d first thought. But her eyes… her eyes were old.

Worn. Tired.

“How long have you been here?” I asked, voice low, unhurried.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at me this time.

I didn’t push. Just leaned back against the tunnel wall, tilting my head against the cold stone with a quiet sigh.

The night was cold, thick with the scent of wet concrete and dry earth. Somewhere deeper in the tunnel, water dripped from a broken pipe, the sound echoing in the empty space.

She drank again, slower this time. Then she screwed the cap shut and clutched the bottle to her chest, like she was afraid I’d take it.

I didn’t move.

The silence stretched between us.

But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t mind.

She kept her head down, fingers still tight around the bottle, but now that the light touched her face, I could see them better—her eyes. A pale, almost translucent green, the kind that shifted shades depending on the light. They stood out stark against her skin. Not in a striking way, but in a way that didn’t seem natural. Too pale, like she hadn’t seen sunlight in too long.

And her hair… it was strange. Not bad, just unusual. Half white, half black, like a transformation left unfinished. I didn’t know if it was natural or something else.

I didn’t ask.

Then I noticed the bruises.

Small, scattered across her face and neck. Some darker, some reddish.

Not just dirt.

Some were old wounds. Poorly healed cuts.

And there was something else.

And for the first time, I wanted to know who she was.

The sleeve of her sweatshirt—dirty and too big for her frame—was pulled up just enough for me to see the bruise on her wrist. Not the kind you get from bumping into something. It was bigger, deeper.

My fists clenched before I even realized it.

“Did someone hurt you?” My voice came out firmer than I intended.

She looked up at me, and for a second, I thought she was going to answer. But then her gaze dropped again, fingers gripping the fabric of her sweatshirt tightly.

Silence.

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