The Echo Room

The first time Nora woke in the Echo Room, she assumed it was a dream.

The ceiling was a blank expanse of shadowless gray. No windows. No light source. Just a soft, even glow that gave everything a washed-out appearance, like a room that had never been touched by time or memory.

She sat up on the bed—a narrow cot covered with coarse white sheets—and whispered, “Where am I?”

The room answered, Where am I?

Same tone. Same voice. Her voice.

She laughed nervously. “Okay. A dream.”

Okay. A dream.

She stood. The floor was warm, smooth like polished stone. She ran her fingers along the wall—featureless, cool, slightly humming beneath her touch. There were no doors. No seams. No vents. It was like waking up inside a sealed thought.

“Is anyone there?”

Is anyone there?

Every time she spoke, the voice replied. Not an echo, not exactly. It didn’t bounce off the walls with reverb. It repeated. Exactly. As if some hollow version of her were sitting just out of sight, parroting back her every word.

The second night, she woke in the same room. Same cot. Same hum. Same voice.

By the fourth night, she tried to break it.

“Sing a song,” she commanded.

Sing a song.

“Tell me who you are.”

Tell me who you are.

She pressed her palms to her ears, screamed, cried. The voice matched every note of anguish.

She began to fear sleep. But it always found her, and when it did, the Echo Room was waiting.

She lost count after eleven nights. Then twenty.

Then came the twenty-seventh night.

Nora sat cross-legged in the center of the room. She no longer called out. What was the point?

Instead, she whispered a thought to herself, barely audible. “You’re not real.”

Silence.

That was new. The echo should have replied. But it didn’t.

“...Hello?” she said louder.

Hello.

Back again. She clenched her fists. “Why didn’t you repeat the first thing I said?”

Because I didn’t want to.

She froze. The voice still sounded like hers—but now it had a rhythm. A pause. An intention.

She took a step back. “You’re not… me.”

Not exactly, the voice answered.

Something stirred beneath the surface of the wall. A shimmer, like heat above asphalt, pulsed for a moment and then was gone.

“Who are you?”

You’ve been asking the wrong question.

“Okay… then what’s the right one?”

Why are you here?

Nora sat slowly. Her mouth was dry. “I don’t know.”

You do. But you've buried it.

“Buried what?”

The memory. The moment. The reason you built this place.

“I didn’t build this—”

Didn’t you? This is your mind, Nora. Every inch. Every wall.

She shook her head. “No. This is a prison. I didn’t make it.”

We made it together, said the voice, You made me. I am what you refused to face.

Nora felt something rising in her chest—a panic that was far too real for a dream. “What are you talking about?”

The thing you did. Or let happen. The choice that locked you in here.

Suddenly, flashes came. A rainy street. Screeching tires. Blood on the glass. Her sister’s voice screaming, “Nora, watch out!”—and then silence.

Nora pressed her hands to her face. “I didn’t mean to. I was just so tired.”

You were driving. You knew. You just wanted to get home.

She sobbed now, rocking back and forth. The hum of the room grew louder, rising in pitch like boiling water. The cot dissolved behind her. The walls began to vibrate.

“I wanted to forget,” she whispered.

So you came here. To forget. To echo back only what you wanted to hear.

The floor cracked beneath her. Light poured in from below—warm, golden, inviting. For the first time, there was something other than sameness.

The voice spoke once more. Not an echo. A statement.

It’s time to remember. Time to wake up.

Nora opened her eyes.

She was in a hospital room. Her mother sat beside her, eyes wide with relief. Machines beeped softly around her. Outside, it was raining.

She didn’t speak at first. She only whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Her mother took her hand and nodded through tears. “We know, baby. You’re okay. You’re finally back.”

Later, a doctor told her she’d been unconscious for twenty-seven days.

Nora said nothing. She just stared at her reflection in the window, watching it blink when she did.

No echo.

Just her. by azmat