Through the walls

It started with a whisper I was in my mother’s bedroom, her scent still lingering in the air, a mix of lavender and something uniquely her. She’d been gone for weeks, and yet, in that moment, it felt like she was standing right behind me.

"Evelyn."

The voice was faint, but it was hers. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest as if it were trying to escape. The house had always been eerily quiet since she passed, but this was something else.

I sat up in bed, holding my breath.

"Mom?" I whispered, feeling foolish even as the word left my lips.

There was no reply. Just the hum of the refrigerator down the hall and the creak of the old wooden floor beneath my weight. I told myself it was nothing, just my grief playing tricks on me. But deep down, I knew.

It wasn’t the first time I thought I’d heard her. Ever since she died, there’d been… signs. Little things. A faint knock when no one was at the door. The sound of footsteps in the hallway when I was alone. And that wall.

She’d pointed to it in the hospital, her trembling hand weakly gesturing toward the blank, pale blue wall as she tried to speak. Her lips had moved, but no sound came. Whatever she wanted to say had stayed locked in her chest, and I’d been left with the memory—and the questions.

What was she trying to tell me?

I stayed at her house because I couldn’t bear to sell it yet. It wasn’t just bricks and mortar; it was her. Every creak, every smell, every corner of that house held a piece of her life. My life.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, thinking of the wall, her voice, her unfinished words. And then, I heard it again.

"Evelyn, my love."

This time, it wasn’t a whisper. It was soft but clear, as if she were standing right beside me.

I jumped out of bed, my feet landing with a thud on the hardwood floor. I followed the sound, my hands trembling as I turned on the hallway light. It led me to the wall.

I pressed my ear against the cold surface. "Mom? Is that you?"

There was no answer. Just the faintest sensation, like a vibration, as though the wall itself was alive. My pulse raced as I traced my fingers over the surface. The paint was smooth, but there was something underneath—a seam I hadn’t noticed before.

Grabbing a screwdriver from the drawer in the kitchen, I pried at the seam until a small panel popped open. Dust filled the air, and I coughed, waving it away. Inside was a box, old and weathered, with my name written on it in her familiar handwriting.

I sank to the floor, my legs too weak to hold me. With trembling hands, I opened the box.

Inside were letters—dozens of them. Each one addressed to me. My tears fell freely as I unfolded the first.

My dearest Evelyn, if you’re reading this, it means I didn’t get to tell you everything I wanted to say.

Her words were a balm to my aching heart. She wrote about her life, her struggles, her love for me. She wrote about how proud she was, how she had always wanted me to chase my dreams, no matter how far they took me from her.

At the bottom of the box, tucked beneath the letters, was her will. She had left everything to me—the house, her savings, her journals. And along with it, she wrote one final wish: *Live boldly, Evelyn. Don’t let fear hold you back.

Her voice came one last time, soft and warm like a hug.

"I love you, Evelyn. Don’t ever forget that."

I stayed there on the floor until the sun rose, clutching the box as though it were her. For the first time since her passing, I felt a strange sense of peace.

That wall, once a mystery, had become the bridge between us.

And even though she was gone, she had found a way to remind me that love never truly leaves.