Echo

Clara stood in her kitchen, scraping butter onto toast as the kettle began to rumble. She poured the boiling water into the instant coffee and reached for the mug with the chipped handle - her favourite. Morning sun spilled over the countertop like a blessing. She felt it shine over her body. The warmth gave her the energy to go on with her day, for she hadn't felt like doing anything these last few weeks.

"You don't have to be afraid."

She froze.

A woman's voice. Clear. Calm. Too close.

Clara whipped around.

Empty kitchen. Silence.

She looked at the hallway. Silent. The clock ticked steadily. She turned off the gas - the boiling eggs on the stove. Her chest tightened.

She waited.

Nothing.

Her hand trembled slightly as she emptied the boiling water into the sink and left the eggs to cool. She must've imagined it. Lack of sleep, maybe. That podcast on grief had talked about "auditory hallucinations." Stress. Overactive mind.

Clara nodded to herself and tried to laugh it off. But her laugh was thin. False.

She sat at the kitchen table, took a bite of toast, then turned the cold tap on and placed the saucepan of eggs under it. She took a boiled egg and peeled it, placing it on her plate with her toast as she sat down at the table to finish eating.

"I'm not here to hurt you."

The voice again - so near, like someone whispering in her ear.

Clara jolted, toast dropping from her fingers. She stood up so fast her chair clattered backward. 

"Who's there?" she called, her voice cracking.

Silence.

Her heart pounded. She checked every room, even the tiny cupboard under the stairs. Nothing. Not a single misplaced shadow.

She returned to the kitchen, locking the back door and bolting the front for good measure. Her phone sat on the table. She reached for it.

"Please don't call anyone yet."

Clara recoiled. The phone slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. 

"What do you want?" 

She was speaking to no one, to something.

No reply.

She crouched and retrieved the phone, her fingers sweaty against the screen. She considered calling a friend, her sister, anyone. But something inside her - a strange hesitation - stopped her.

She remembered the way the voice had sounded: soft. Almost…familiar.

The day crept on. She stayed inside, curtains drawn. Every creak of the house made her flinch. She said nothing else. Not even when the voice returned in the evening.

"It's okay to be scared. I was scared, too."

Clara didn't respond.

By nightfall, her mind ached from overthinking. She fell asleep on the couch, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

The next morning, Clara woke to rain tapping gently on the windows. The voice hadn't come again. She rubbed her face and stood, groggy and numb.

And then she noticed it: the photograph on the bookshelf had fallen over.

It was the picture of her and Isla, taken a week before the crash. They were on the pier, wind in their hair, hands clasped. Clara's throat tightened.

The voice had sounded like Isla.

She sat down, photo in hand, heart thudding like a drum. Her fingers brushed the glass.

"Yes. It's me."

She dropped the frame, glass shattering at her feet. She backed away, tears burning her eyes.

"No," she whispered. "You're dead. I - I buried you."

"I know. But I need your help."

Clara stared at the shards. Her hands trembled.

"Help you?" she whispered. "How?"

"There's something you need to remember. Something you've locked away."

Clara squeezed her eyes shut. 

"Don't do this to me. I can't bear it. It's taken so long to get over what happened."

But the voice didn't come again.

Only silence.

***

That night, she dreamed of the accident. The rain. The screaming. The twisted metal. But this time, she saw something new : her own hands pushing Isla into the driver's seat.

"You drive," she had said. "I've had too much wine."

***

She awoke, gasping.

The memory had never surfaced until now.

A knock rattled her front door.

Clara stumbled to it, heart pounding.

She opened the door to find a small envelope on the mat. No one in sight.

Inside was a note.

"You didn't kill me. The brakes were already cut. Find out who did it. Finish what I couldn't. - Isla."

Clara's hands shook as she stared into the rain.

The fear ebbed, replaced by something sharper. 

Purpose. She had something to focus on. She wouldn't go potty, wondering about it.

Her mind was now clear. Ready to find the truth.