Luka woke up with dirt under his fingernails and a melody in his head he couldn't place.
It wasn't music from any radio or playlist. It was something older, buried beneath memory like a song whispered through generations.
He sat up slowly, heart pounding, the notes still echoing behind his eyes.
His bedroom window was open.
Rain misted against the glass.
And on the floor beside his bed, drawn in chalk across the wooden planks, was another spiral.
At school, Mira waited for him by the oak tree.
She looked pale, tired—but her eyes were sharp, alert. She held up her sketchpad without hesitation.
This time, the drawing showed a boy standing alone in front of the door beneath the birch tree. His hands were pressed flat against the wood. The roots around it pulsed like veins.
Beneath the image, she had written one word in pencil:
Tonight.
Luka swallowed hard. "You think we have to go back."
She nodded once.
Then she pointed to his chest.
"You already know," she signed.
He exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I don't even remember drawing that symbol last night."
Mira tilted her head.
Then she drew again—faster this time.
A boy walking backward through the forest. A girl following closely behind. Behind them, shadows curled upward like smoke caught in wind.
Luka stared at it. "You saw me?"
She nodded.
Then tapped the edge of the page twice.
Confirmation.
He looked down at his hands, remembering the dirt beneath his nails.
"I didn't leave my room," he murmured. "I know I didn't."
Mira gave him a look that said maybe you did. Just not awake.
He shivered.
Eli watched them both carefully that afternoon.
They weren't just drawing anymore. They weren't just listening.
They were remembering things they hadn't lived.
That night, he found Mira standing by the window again, sketchpad clutched tightly in both hands.
He stepped closer. "What's happening to you two?"
She didn't turn around.
Instead, she flipped through the pages—slowly at first, then faster. Each drawing more unsettling than the last.
A man standing in the center of an empty street, mouth open in a scream no one could hear.
A woman sitting beneath a tree, humming a lullaby that hadn't been sung in decades.
A boy staring into a mirror that didn't reflect him.
Eli closed the book gently. "These people…"
She nodded.
"They're real," he whispered.
She tapped the edge of the pad twice.
He ran a hand through his hair. "So what? You're seeing their memories now?"
She hesitated—then drew again.
A line of people walking silently through the woods. Their faces blurred, as if seen through fog.
And behind them, the trees leaned inward, listening.
Eli stared at it. "They're not just memories."
She met his gaze.
Then she signed:
They're echoes.
He swallowed hard.
And somewhere, deep in the quiet spaces between heartbeats, something stirred.
By the time night fell, the town was restless.
Another disappearance.
This time, an adult—a librarian named Mr. Hensley. He had locked up the building himself, security cameras confirmed it. But when the next shift arrived, the doors were wide open. Lights flickering. And no sign of him anywhere.
No struggle.
No noise.
Just silence.
Eli read about it online while Mira packed her sketchbook.
She handed him a final drawing before slipping out the window.
It showed Eli standing alone in a field of ash.
Watching something vanish.
He clenched his jaw.
Then he followed her.
Because he knew, somehow, that if she walked into the silence alone—
She might never come back.