Page 29 of Lost Echoes
I type something honest, the tiniest thread of a memory that couldn’t be invented:
The bear’s right eye always fell out when we cried. They sewed it back with thicker thread during the shows.
The cursor blinks. Twice.
Phoenix answers, no flourish:
Good. Meet me in Lost Echoes in three hours. Use the referral phrase “white spool” to get noticed. Do not ask how I know. Don’t use your real name. And one more thing—trust nobody who calls you family here. They might be better actors than you think.
The window closes.
Luke’s breath is shallow. “Three hours,” he repeats. “We have three hours to make a persona that won’t get us outed, or worse, bring unwanted attention to Kenzi.”
My whole body is a map of tiny, electric, terrified places. I want to scream and to call my dad. To delete everything and hide. I want to leap into the screen and hug Phoenix until he stops warning me.
Instead, I close my eyes and picture Kenzi’s face when she looked at me and said, I didn’t want to. The memory of her hands, the way they folded like someone learning a new shape.
“We do this right,” I say finally. My voice is steadier than I feel. “We make her believable and keep every real thing off the table. Don’t give them Kenzi. Only give them an echo of the past.”
Luke nods, already opening a blank document. He’s calm in the way people get when they’re turning fear into plans. “We build an echo and we don’t answer anyone else. Only Phoenix. If this is one of their traps, we’ll at least be one step ahead.”
I stare at the screen until the white of the message window bleaches into nothing. Somewhere in my chest, something that has lain quiet for years—a small, stubborn ember of wanting the truth—lights and shivers. Three hours is nothing.
Three hours is everything.
15
Billa
The room smells faintly of coffee and dust, like a church basement pressed into service for a hundred purposes. Folding chairs line the walls in an uneven circle, and the fluorescent lights buzz just enough to set my nerves on edge.
Florencia squeezes my shoulder as we step inside. “You don’t have to say anything,” she whispers. “Just listen, that’s all.”
I nod, clutching my bag too tight. The one-eyed bear drawing is folded inside, burning against my palm like a secret I’m not ready to face.
There are maybe a dozen people here. Some look young, and others old enough to be my grandparents. Each face holds the same shadow—something missing behind their eyes, something stolen.
Florencia and I sit, managing to get chairs next to each other. She sits elegantly, with the poise of someone who doesn’t question herself. I tap my foot nervously, unable to stop it.
A man in his forties with a trim salt-and-pepper beard clears his throat. “We’ll start the way we always do. Names optional. Stories as much or as little as you want. We’re here because nobody else listens.”
One by one, the circle begins. Memories half-remembered. Dreams that feel too real. A woman describing a staircase that led nowhere, a boy who spoke in riddles before he disappeared. A middle-aged man whose arms twitch like he’s still strapped down.
When it comes to me, I shake my head. My foot taps seemingly out of control. I can’t talk, not yet. But I listen to every word, every fragment.
A younger woman with platinum curls leans forward. Her hands twist in her lap. “They always said we were performing. That’s how they called it. The performances. But what I remember most isn’t the stage.” She lowers her voice. “It’s the white spool.”
The room goes still for a moment, like the phrase has weight. But then the conversation drifts on, folding around it, burying it.
I shiver, not knowing why.
Florencia tilts her head as if she’s memorizing every word. She probably is.
I glance at the woman again. Her eyes are far away, but her voice carries steadily. “The spool was what they passed to the next one, like a baton in a race. If you got it, it was your turn to do the hurting. Your turn to be watched. I prayed I’d never see it again.”
My fingers tighten around the folded paper in my bag. A bear missing an eye. A word I don’t understand. White spool. But it sparks something in me. I just can’t figure out what. Or why.
Across the circle, another survivor nods knowingly.
