Before the Sky Went Quiet: Part III - The Echo That Stayed

Chapter Ten

The Letter She Never Sent

Mae didn’t cry at the funeral.

She sat in the third row with her hands folded tight in her lap, watching the slideshow like she was trying to memorize every photo before it disappeared.

The one that hurt the most wasn’t from childhood.

It was from three months ago. Sora in a yellow hoodie. Half-smiling. Looking off-camera. Still breathing.

After it ended, Mae slipped away from the crowd.

She didn’t say goodbye to anyone.

Calder found her near the tree line behind the church.

He didn’t speak.

He just held out an envelope.

Her name was written on the front in handwriting she couldn’t mistake.

Sora’s.

Mae took it with both hands.

Didn’t open it.

Not yet.

She waited until the next morning.

Her room was dim. Curtain half-closed. Air too quiet.

She sat on the floor, the envelope between her knees.

When she finally unfolded the letter, it smelled like lavender and printer paper.

The ink was slightly smudged in the corner. Like she had cried while writing it.

Mae ran her thumb over the signature.

Then read.

Mae,

If you’re reading this, I’m already gone.

I didn’t want to write this.

I wanted to be able to say it.

I wanted to hold your wrist and look you in the eye and say it like it didn’t mean goodbye.

But I ran out of voice. And time.

So this is what I have.

I loved you. I loved you like the sky, too wide to measure and too close to explain.

I didn’t tell you because I was scared it would change the one thing in my life that didn’t feel like dying.

You made it harder to leave.

That’s not your fault. That’s love.

You don’t have to carry this like a wound.

Carry it like a song.

You were the last verse I didn’t get to finish.

And I’m still singing it.

Yours,

Sora

Mae folded the letter slowly.

Pressed it to her chest.

Then whispered, “I would’ve said it back.”

Chapter Eleven

What She Left Him

Calder didn’t go back into the attic for a week.

He didn’t play.

Didn’t move her notebooks.

Didn’t touch the guitar.

But on the seventh night, he opened the piano bench.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe because he missed the sound of a chord even if it came from memory.

Inside, between two old sheet music books, was a folded piece of notebook paper.

Her handwriting.

Not a letter.

Not lyrics.

Just one sentence, written alone in the middle of the page:

“Don’t let them remember me in silence.”

He stared at it for a long time.

Then folded it.

Put it in his back pocket.

Walked into the garage.

Turned the amp to max.

Plugged in.

Struck the first chord hard enough to rattle the walls.

The neighbors turned their porch lights on.

He kept going.

The string buzzed. His fingers slipped. His hand shook.

But it was loud.

And for the first time since she left, the house didn’t feel like a grave.

It felt like memory.

Chapter Twelve

The Star She Didn’t Cross

Sora’s room still looked the same.

Mae stood in the doorway with her hand on the frame, not ready to step inside. It felt like trespassing. Like Sora might walk back in and ask what she was doing there.

Nothing had changed.

The hoodie still hung from the chair. The books were still stacked on the dresser. The cassette necklace still looped around the speaker.

The star chart was still taped above the bed.

Mae took a slow step forward.

The chart was faded now. Red marker scrawled across most of the constellations. Every one crossed out in a clean, deliberate X.

Except one.

Bottom corner.

Bright. Clear.

Unmarked.

Next to it, written in Sora’s handwriting:

“Mae.”

Mae sat on the bed without meaning to.

She stared at it for a long time.

Not crying.

Just breathing.

Then she got up, opened the drawer, and found the marker.

She didn’t pick the red one.

She picked the black.

And instead of crossing the star out, she circled it.

Not once.

Twice.

Then wrote underneath:

“Still here.”

Chapter Thirteen

The People Who Stayed

Mae showed up at Calder’s door without warning.

He opened it slowly, eyes tired.

She didn’t speak.

He moved aside.

She stepped in.

The house smelled like cinnamon tea and sawdust.

The guitar was propped against the couch.

She sat at the table.

He joined her.

Two mugs. Steam rising. No one drank yet.

“I found the star,” she said softly.

He looked at her.

“She didn’t cross it out.”

“I know,” he said.

“She circled mine.”

He nodded once.

They both stared at the table.

“She left you one too,” Mae said after a while. “That lyric.”

Calder rubbed his thumb along the edge of his mug.

“I think she wanted us to remember her louder than we’re comfortable with.”

“She was never comfortable being quiet,” Mae said.

He smiled.

Small. Crooked.

True.

She reached into her pocket and placed the cassette necklace on the table.

“She wore this like armor.”

Calder stared at it.

“She said it made her feel like she was carrying your music with her.”

His throat caught.

He didn’t pick it up.

Just looked at it.

And whispered, “I didn’t know that.”

“She didn’t want you to,” Mae said.

They sat in the silence.

Not afraid of it this time.

Not crushed by it.

Just sharing it.

Two people who loved the same girl.

And knew now what it meant to still carry her.

Chapter Fourteen

The First Line

Mae hadn’t played in thirty-two days.

She knew because she had been counting.

The guitar sat in the corner of her room like a dare. Every time she looked at it, her chest tightened. Every time she walked past it, she told herself she wasn’t ready.

Until one night, she didn’t think.

She just sat down.

Floor cold.

Room quiet.

Notebook in her lap.

She opened the cover. The one Sora had given her two birthdays ago.

Inside was the inscription:

“Write like no one’s waiting.”

Mae touched the ink with her thumb.

Then flipped to a blank page.

Picked up her pen.

And wrote:

“Your silence is louder than most people’s songs.”

She stared at the line.

Not proud of it.

Not even sure she meant it.

But it was the first thing that didn’t feel like lying.

She picked up the guitar.

Plucked a single note.

Wrong.

Off-key.

Perfect.

She played it again.

Then sang the line.

Her voice cracked on the last word.

She kept going.

She didn’t record it.

She didn’t write a chorus.

She just played the same line again.

And when she was done, she whispered:

“Thank you for not staying quiet.”

Chapter Fifteen

Play It Loud

The café was half-full. Nobody came for the music. They came for lattes and Wi-Fi and not having to talk to anyone.

Mae signed up for the open mic under a fake last name.

When they called her, she walked up shaking.

Sora’s necklace was under her hoodie.

The guitar strap was fraying.

The pick was chipped.

None of it mattered.

She sat down.

Didn’t introduce herself.

Didn’t look at the crowd.

She just played.

The first chord buzzed.

Her voice caught.

She played through it.

Your silence is louder than most people’s songs

You left your voice in the corner of this room

I pick it up when no one’s looking

I play it out of tune

And every time it breaks again

I know you’d say that means it’s real

So I sing you back into the air

And make sure everyone can feel

You.

The room didn’t applaud right away.

Someone wiped their eyes.

Someone else whispered, “Damn.”

Mae unplugged her guitar.

Stepped off the stage.

Walked past the espresso machine.

Sat down at a table in the back.

Calder was already waiting there.

He didn’t speak.

He took her hand.

Held it.

Not tight.

Just enough.

Sora wasn’t in the room.

But it didn’t feel like she was gone, either.

Chapter Sixteen

The Last Echo

Mae was packing when she found the recorder.

Bottom of the drawer. Wrapped in a scarf. Battery still good.

She hadn’t listened to the file in over a year.

She almost didn’t now.

But something about the silence in the room felt heavy. Not sad. Just waiting.

She pressed play.

“I had a good day.”

“I felt like myself.”

“Thank you for letting me leave while I was still her.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

She had memorized those lines.

Could hear them in her sleep.

But this time, she didn’t stop it early.

She let it run.

And caught it.

At the very end.

A breath.

A whisper.

So quiet she thought she imagined it.

She turned the volume up.

Pressed the speaker to her ear.

Played it again.

One second of static.

Then,

“Don’t let go of the loud.”

Mae didn’t cry.

She stood.

Opened the window.

Let the city noise drift in.

Then she picked up her guitar.

Struck one chord.

Off-key.

Sharp.

Beautiful.

She played it again.

Epilogue

Fragments from the Echo

The One She Never Sent

Calder found a voice file six months later. Untitled. Hidden deep in a backup folder.

“If you’re hearing this, I broke.”

“Not my body. My pretending.”

“Some days I didn’t want to die. Other days I didn’t want to stay.”

“I’m sorry if this version of me is harder to carry.”

“I loved you enough to try. I just didn’t always love myself enough to keep trying.”

He played it once.

Then never again.

Not because it hurt.

Because it was enough.

The Blank One

In a box of notes, Mae found an envelope labeled:

“Open when you don’t know what to feel.”

Inside was nothing.

No paper.

No message.

Just space.

She folded the envelope shut.

And whispered, “Me too.”

The Final Song

Ten years later, Mae heard Sora’s voice in a song playing at a bookstore.

Someone had sampled her hum.

A soft loop.

No words.

Just the breath before a melody.

No one else noticed.

Mae didn’t ask who made the track.

She didn’t need to.

She stood in the aisle, closed her eyes, and listened.

Sora was still here.

Still echoing.

Still loud.

The End

Before the Sky Went Quiet