Page 52 of Lost Echoes
The aisles stretch ahead, rows of broken seats draped in cobwebs. Some are torn open, their stuffing spilling like wounds.
I force myself to walk between them, each step sinking into the carpet that crunches with grit.
My mind doesn’t see ruin. The theater stretches before me, alive and in living color. Children in costumes, stiff smiles painted over fear. Laurel paces the aisles, correcting posture, demanding louder lines, bigger gestures. Adults in the back rows, clipboards in hand, watching us perform pain like it was art.
My throat tightens. The pull is strong, dragging me backward into the memory.
Dr. Hanson’s voice cuts through it all, a steady force. “Tell me what’s really here, Kenzi. Right now in front of us.”
I squeeze the stone in my fist, grounding myself. My gaze darts around, and I force myself to name what I see. “Seats. Torn fabric. Dust. Emptiness.”
Her voice softens. “Good. Stay here. The past has left.”
My body keeps shifting, posture correcting itself, my lips twitching toward a smile I don’t want to wear. I force them still.
“I’m not on stage,” I whisper to myself. “I’m not on stage.”
The aisles stretch forward, darker with each step. And at the end… the stage waits, shrouded in shadow, a mouth open wide.
My pulse quickens. The whispers haven’t returned, but the silence feels just as loud.
The closer I get, the heavier the air presses on me, thick with dust and ghosts. The stage looms ahead, its curtain sagging in tatters, the wood warped with age.
My legs tremble as I step up. The boards creak under my weight—different, older, but my body remembers the rhythm.
And then it happens. A flicker followed by a flood. The theater isn’t empty anymore.
The seats are full rows of faces half-hidden in shadow, clipboards glinting under the stage lights. Laurel’s voice snaps through the air. “Smile wider, Kenzi. No one wants to see your fear.”
My mouth stretches against my will. My hand jerks into place, the white spool shoved into it. I remember its weight, the way it passed from child to child like a curse.
And then a boy, no older than eight, standing across from me. His eyes are wide, pleading. He’s shaking.
Laurel’s command cuts through. “Your turn. Make him perform.”
My chest seizes. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to, but my body responds anyway. My hand reaches out, my voice rising in a singsong line I was taught. The boy obeys, tears streaking his face as he lifts his arm and strikes himself, again and again… because I told him to.
I choke, dropping to my knees. “I didn’t want to!”
The boards are real under me, splinters biting my palms, but the memory keeps rolling. His sobs echo in my ears. My command is the knife that cut him, and Laurel’s approving smile is the applause that sealed it.
I press the stone into my palm until it draws blood. “I was a puppet, and I made him bleed.”
Dr. Hanson’s voice is urgent, steady, trying to cut through. “Kenzi, you were forced. That wasn’t your choice. You were controlled.”
But I can’t shake the image of his eyes, the betrayal in them.
Hot anger rises, cutting through the shame. I look up at the shadowed rows, at the ghosts of the audience. My voice is hoarse, but strong. “No more. I’m done dancing for her. For them. If I want to stop this—if I want Fenna safe—I have to face him. The one who wrote the script.”
Dr. Hanson kneels beside me, her hand light on my shoulder. “You mean Dr. Radley?”
I nod, my chest heaving. “Yes, him. I have to face Dr. Radley. It’s the only way.”
The stage creaks under me, the now-empty theater swallowing my vow like it’s listening.
For the first time, I feel something sharper than fear.
Resolve.
