"Echoes in the Empty Room"

Story:

The room still smelled like him.

That familiar mix of old cologne, gym socks, and the citrus shampoo he always pretended wasn’t his. Marie stood in the doorway, hands clutching a mug of chamomile tea that had long gone cold.

Jude had been gone for six weeks. Off to college. Just four hours away by car, but it might as well have been the moon.

She told herself this was what she wanted—what all good mothers wanted. Independence. A future. A son who could cook a frozen pizza without burning the house down.

But every night after dinner, once the dishwasher hummed and the cat had curled up at the foot of her bed, she found herself here. In his room. Talking to the air.

"Hey, baby. I folded your hoodie. The black one you always forget you own. I put it back on the chair."

Silence.

"And I cleaned under your bed. Found one of your old Pokémon cards. Remember how you cried when you lost Charizard in second grade?"

Silence.

"And I—God, I miss you, Jude. I miss you more than I thought I could miss anyone."

The silence didn’t bother her. She never expected it to answer.

Until one night, it did.

She’d just set her tea on the desk and was adjusting the worn quilt on his bed when she heard it.

A whisper.

Not loud. Not clear. But unmistakably… there.

Her heart skipped. She spun around, half-expecting to see Jude standing behind her, grinning, saying he forgot his phone charger or wanted real food.

But the doorway was empty.

She walked into the hall. Quiet. The entire house held its breath.

She returned to the room. "Hello?"

Nothing.

She stayed out of the room for two days after that.

On the third night, curiosity outweighed fear.

She sat on the edge of the bed, holding one of Jude’s flannel shirts like a comfort blanket.

"If you’re a ghost or something," she said aloud, her voice shaking only slightly, "you picked the wrong room. The attic’s much creepier."

Silence. Then—

“Mom.”

The whisper was faint. Soft. Like wind across glass. But it was his voice. Jude’s.

Her breath caught in her chest. She turned toward the window. Nothing.

“Jude?” she said, her voice cracking.

No reply.

She didn't sleep that night.

The next day, she called him.

“Hey, Mom,” he answered, casual as ever.

“Hi, honey. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired. Exams. You?”

“Fine,” she said. “I thought I heard your voice last night.”

He laughed. “Miss me that much, huh?”

She laughed too, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Always.”

The whispers came again. Every few nights.

Sometimes just her name. Sometimes fragments of sentences she didn’t understand.

Other times…

“Don’t let go.”

“I miss home.”

“It’s harder than I thought.”

Marie started keeping a journal, writing down every word she heard. She began replying too, talking more freely.

She told the room about the quiet. About how hard it was to cook for one. How she kept setting the table for two by mistake.

About the ache that lived where her son used to be.

And always, always, the whisper came:

“I miss you too.”

One day, she drove up to surprise him.

Jude looked thinner. A little pale. His room was a mess, and his eyes held a storm she hadn’t seen before.

“You okay?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Just tired. Homesick, maybe. I talk to your old voicemails a lot. Helps me sleep.”

Her heart stuttered. “Voicemails?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes flicking away. “You always say goodnight like you used to when I was a kid. It’s... comforting.”

That night, she sat in her car and cried.

Back home, she went to his room.

Sat on the bed. Held his hoodie.

And for the first time, she didn’t speak first.

“I love you, Mom.”

The whisper was soft. Certain.

She smiled through tears.

“I love you too, baby. Always.”

The whispers faded after that. Slower, quieter. Like fog lifting in the morning.

Marie still came to the room sometimes. Not out of grief—but gratitude.

Because the room wasn’t haunted.

It was holding love that had nowhere else to go.

And sometimes, when love echoes long enough...

It answers back.