Echoes of Their Words

The Last Conversation

They say what your parents tell you as a child stays with you for the rest of your life, but I had no idea how literal that would be until last summer.

My mother would say, "Never ignore what doesn't feel right, even if you can't put your finger on it." My father, the practical one, would then add, "Trust your eyes, kid, but don't fail to hear. The world will speak when you keep quiet."

I was 27 when they died. Car wreck on a winding Colorado road. I had not spoken to them in four days. I missed their last call—voicemail never felt so cruel.

In the weeks after the funeral, I returned to their house—my childhood home. Sorting through their things was like peeling off layers of my own heart. In the attic, I found a box. Labeled simply: **"For Caleb. When You're Ready."**

I wasn't ready.

But I opened it.

Inside were conjectures of dozens of handwritten letters. Some were lost when I was born, others as recent as a week before the crash. And at the very bottom, a small leather-bound diary.

It was filled with odd stories.

Warnings and Whispers

Each entry in the diary began with the same sentence: *"If you're reading this, it means the time has come."*

I opened to one entry ten years ago.

"Caleb, one day you'll notice a man waiting on the corner of Brindle Street and Rowan Lane. He won't speak first. If you ask him for the time, and he answers 'the moment is already past,' you must follow him."

Another said:

"If the clocks in the house all stop at 3:17 AM, search in the floorboard under the old upright piano."

There were dozens of such notes. I thought it was a scavenger hunt at first. Something they'd arranged for me after they passed away. But the specificity of what was going to happen indicated otherwise.

Two weeks later, every clock in the house stopped.

At exactly 3:17 AM.

Under the Piano

I pried up the floorboard as instructed and found a cloth-wrapped object: an antique pocket watch and a small brass key.

The watch was faceless. There was only a twisting symbol etched into its face—three crescents curling into one another.

I took the journal downstairs, sat in their favorite armchair, and scowled at the next unread entry:

"When you find the key, go to Room 3 at the Carter Hotel. Leave the light off. Listen."

Carter Hotel was empty. Shut down one year after a fire in its west wing. I remembered riding past it as a kid. They said it was haunted, but that did not stop me.

Room 3 was still there.

I went at sunset.

The light bulb did not work. I sat on the edge of the bed. And waited.

At first, just silence.

Then: tapping. Like fingernails. From inside the closet.

The Door That Shouldn't Exist

The closet door opened on its own. The tapping stopped.

There was a door inside. One that wasn't there when I first checked. It looked old. Not part of the hotel structure. It didn't have a door handle—a keyhole only.

I put in the brass key.

The door groaned open into darkness. But not into silence. I heard breathing.

I should've run.

But my parents also taught me to face fear. To trust instinct. And strangely, I did not feel horror. Just. recognition.

So I stepped through.

The Memory Hall

It was a hall of light and sound. Images playing on invisible walls. My own memories unfolded beside me. My first birthday. Mom singing. Dad teaching me to ride a bike.

Then. a memory I had never seen before.

A dark room. A stranger. He whispered a secret to me as an infant in a crib. Then looked right at me—as if knowing I was watching.

"The boy must remember," he said.

I turned around.

My parents were standing there.

Younger. Alive.

"You're close," Mom said.

"But not ready," Dad said.

Then it went black.

A Return, A Revelation

I woke up in my car. Parked in front of the Carter Hotel. Morning. My phone had no reception. The watch was in my pocket.

Still no hands.

Back at home, I re-read the final entry in the journal.

"This path is not a puzzle. It's protection. There is a truth you were born to find. But only when your heart is strong enough to bear the cost."

In the following weeks, I followed additional leads. Each one provided a memory, a vision, or a dream that was too real. I discovered my parents had spent their lives preparing for something—something hidden in time, in me.

The Voice Beyond

The final place was the library—the one in which I had first learned to read. In the history section, I found a book with no mark.

Within, a mirror.

When I looked again, I saw them once more.

They smiled.

"Caleb, this is the final gift," Mom whispered.

"We showed you guidance so you'd know the path. But now, you must live it, not follow it. You are the keeper of memory. The guardian of time."

The mirror undulated. My reflection extended its hand.

And I understood.

They weren't preparing me for loss.

They were preparing me for a choice.

To live in the past with them.

Or return to a future without them, yet with guidance.

I moved forward.

**Epilogue: Echoes**

I now carry their journal. Not as a manual, but a reminder.

For sometimes, guidance is not just a lesson.

It's a legacy.

And through it, my mom and dad still speak.

Even now, when I reach a crossroads, I hear them loud and clear:

*"Trust yourself, Caleb. You were never alone."*