The Echo Between Moments

I hear it again.

A voice—soft, distant, like a whisper carried by the wind. It calls my name, but when I turn, there’s no one there.

I should be used to it by now.

It started a week ago. The first time, I thought it was my imagination. The second time, I dismissed it as a trick of the mind. But by the third time, I could no longer ignore it.

It always comes when I’m alone, when the world around me is quiet. In the dead of night, in an empty hallway, in the brief stillness before a rainstorm. A whisper that isn’t just a sound, but a presence.

And it’s growing louder.

I sit on the park bench, the autumn air crisp against my skin. The city hums around me, but I barely hear it. Instead, I focus on the echo.

Because that’s what it is—an echo.

Not just a voice, but a moment trying to reach me.

A memory that has slipped between time, searching for a way back.

And somehow, for some reason, it’s chosen me to hear it.

The first time it spoke clearly, I was standing in front of my childhood home.

"Can you hear me?"

The voice was familiar, but just out of reach, like trying to recall a dream seconds after waking.

I stepped closer to the house, my fingers grazing the cold metal gate. The whisper crackled through the air like a radio struggling to find a signal.

"Don’t leave yet."

But I did. I ran.

Now, sitting on the bench, I replay that moment over and over.

Who was speaking? Why did they sound like they knew me? And why—of all people—was I the one able to hear them?

A part of me wants to walk away, to pretend none of this is real.

But another part of me—the part that can’t shake the weight of nostalgia pressing against my chest—knows I have to listen.

That night, I return.

The house is different now. The paint is faded, the windows clouded with dust. But the moment I step through the front gate, something shifts.

The air thickens. The night holds its breath.

And then, the whisper comes—not distant, not faint, but right beside me.

"You’re back."

My breath catches.

Because this time, I recognize the voice.

It's mine.

Memories crash into me like waves.

I see myself—younger, afraid, standing in this exact spot years ago. The day I left. The day I chose to forget.

I had run away from something. From someone. From a moment I wasn’t ready to face.

But time doesn’t forget.

It only waits.

And now, it’s calling me back.

I step forward, reaching for the doorknob, heart pounding.

For years, I thought I had moved on. That the past was just a story I no longer needed to tell.

But now I know the truth.

The past doesn’t disappear.

It lingers in the spaces between moments, waiting to be heard.

And tonight, I finally listen.

Author’s Note:

How often do we leave moments unfinished, pretending they no longer exist? But what if they never truly go away—just waiting for us to hear them again?

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