“The Echo in the Kitchen Doorway”

The clock glowed 3:01 a.m. again.

I hadn’t meant to be awake. I never do. But something — maybe the quiet hum of the fridge, or the way the wind scratched at the siding — always dragged me back into consciousness around this hour. And each time, I hoped that I would stop waiting for a voice that I swore I had lost faith in.

However, grief does not request permission. It finds cracks in the walls and echoes through the smallest silences.

In the gloom, I sat up, feeling the cool air against my exposed arms. As we had done since the accident, the yellow light above the kitchen sink provided a dim light for the entire hallway. We never turned that light off now. It seems as though the memory of him would return home in some way if we kept it burning.

I entered the kitchen like a ghost with my feet stomping the wooden floor.

The table was empty.

Of course it was.

I reached for the kettle. My hands shook, just a little — enough to make the water splash when I poured it into the mug he gave me last Christmas. It still said "World's Okayest Sister" in faded letters. He had laughed when I opened it, nudging me in the ribs like he always did.

He laughed the best, but had the worst timing.

I stared into the steam and waited for it to settle my nerves. I stop crying now. Not because I’m strong — because I ran out. A body can only produce so much before it becomes numb. I didn't think I was a warrior. Not like the eulogies said.

Just worn out.

And then, as I had previously, I heard it.

"Are you still up, Little Warrior?"

The voice was quiet. It was supple, like memory was being moved by wind.

And when I turned — he was there.

Leaning against the kitchen doorway.

Oversized hoodie. Messy, too-long hair.

And that crooked, irresistible smirk that made you feel like the world wasn’t such a terrible place after all.

“Elijah.”

My voice cracked, just like it always does in dreams.

However, this was not a dream.

He gave a nod. Calm. Familiar. Unchanged.

As if he hadn't been absent for ten months. Like there wasn’t a framed photo of him upstairs surrounded by candles.

Similar to how his name was not carved into granite two towns further on.

“I thought you weren’t coming back.”

He did not immediately respond. Just stepped forward, his footsteps soundless.

"I come when you need me most."

“I always need you.”

He gave me that tired, knowing smile.

He stated, "Never always. Just when you're close to forgetting how brave you are."

We sat across from each other — the chair scraping gently against the floor. It felt like the hundreds of late-night chats we used to have, after our parents were asleep, when the world felt too big and he made it feel small again.

I put my hands around the cup.

"I didn’t go to basketball tryouts today," I whispered.

He nodded.

"I know."

"I told Coach that I was sick. I lied."

"We occasionally tell lies when we are afraid. That doesn’t make you weak."

I looked down, ashamed. My hands felt foreign to me now — too small to carry the weight they’d been handed.

"I didn't want to hear anyone apologize to my brother. I didn't want to see them again with that look."

"I get it."

"I didn’t even want to get out of bed."

His voice sounded like fallen leaves as he leant forward.

"But you did. You still stood."

I shook my head.

"What if I forget to mention you?"

His eyes became softer.

"You won’t."

"How do you know?"

He reached across and tapped my chest, right over the ache.

"Because you carry me here. I’m not in that photo. I’m here. Every time you choose to get back up."

There was a break. The house felt still — like time had pressed pause just for us.

The sound of the storm outside gently pattered on the windowpane.

A pattern. A heartbeat. Something alive.

Then it came rushing back — that night.

The car. The laughter.

The swerve.

The silence under water.

He had pushed me up.

I had screamed for him.

He did not continue.

“You should’ve saved yourself,” I said, eyes stinging again.

He met my gaze.

"I did," he said.

"You are me. You are my mirror. My second chance."

That was how we sat for a while. Nothing more needed to be said.

He stood slowly, like the weight of everything he'd carried for me had finally lifted. And just before he faded — he gave me that look. The same one he gave me before we got in the car that night.

Protective. Proud.

"Don’t stop trying, okay?"

"I don’t know if I’m ready."

"No one’s ever ready," he said.

"But you move anyway. That’s what makes you a warrior."

After that, he vanished.

Just the kitchen.

Merely the fridge's hum.

Just the whisper of rain tapping the glass.

However, I felt... different.

I felt like something had changed inside me.

Like maybe my feet knew where to go again.

I went up and discovered the notebook he gave me for Christmas last year.

I hadn’t opened it since.

On the first page, I wrote:

I awoke this morning from my bed.

Despite the silence, I stood up.

I remembered who I am.

I tucked it under my pillow. Turned out the light.

And for the first time in twenty-six nights, I closed my eyes…

…and slept.

Because when the world went to sleep,

I awoke warrior-like.