The second the door opened, the silence changed .
It wasn't the absence of sound anymore—it was something alive , something layered with memory and meaning. It pressed against their skin like cool mist, humming just beneath the threshold of hearing.
Mira stepped through first.
Luka followed close behind.
And this time, Eli didn't hesitate—he walked in after them.
The town on the other side remained frozen in time, but now it felt different.
More aware.
As if they were expected.
The buildings stood as before—familiar yet wrong, caught between past and present. But now, the streets pulsed faintly with unseen energy. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, curling around feet like smoke trying to speak.
People moved again—echoes trapped in forgotten moments—but this time, they noticed Mira and Luka.
One by one, they turned.
Watched.
Waited.
A woman in a red coat stepped forward.
Mira's breath caught.
She knew that face—not from memory, not exactly, but from something deeper.
From dreams . From drawings she hadn't meant to make.
From the fire.
Her mother.
The woman raised a hand slowly, lips parting as if to speak.
But no sound came.
Only silence.
Mira reached out instinctively.
Their fingers brushed.
And suddenly, the world shifted .
A flood of images surged through her mind.
Not memories.
Feelings .
Grief, sharp and sudden.
Love, desperate and unspoken.
Fear, deep and endless.
Then—clarity.
Mira staggered back, gasping.
Luka caught her before she fell.
"Mira?" he asked, voice tight with worry.
She looked at him, eyes wide.
Then she signed, slow and deliberate:
They're not ghosts. They're echoes of what was left unsaid.
Luka blinked. "You mean… they never got to finish?"
She nodded once.
Then she drew quickly—a woman standing in front of a burning house, screaming without sound. A boy reaching for someone who had already vanished. A man standing alone in an empty room, whispering apologies into the air.
Each figure carried a story that had never been finished.
And now, they waited.
For someone to listen.
To remember.
To understand.
Eli watched them both carefully.
He didn't need to hear the words to know what was happening.
"She can feel them," he murmured.
Luka met his gaze. "She always could. We just didn't realize it until now."
Eli clenched his jaw. "So what do we do?"
Mira flipped open her sketchpad again.
This time, she drew a girl standing beside a river made of light. Her hands were open, catching fragments of sound like falling petals.
Then she tapped the edge of the page twice.
Luka stared at it. "You want to give them voices."
She nodded.
Then she pointed to herself.
And then to him.
He swallowed hard. "You think I can help?"
She smiled faintly and reached for his hand.
Placed it over her chest.
A heartbeat later, he heard it.
Not sound.
Not silence.
Something in between.
A song only the lost could sing.
Across the town square, more figures began to move.
Children who had wandered too far.
Parents who had called out too late.
Strangers who had simply disappeared.
One by one, they gathered around Mira and Luka, forming a quiet circle.
Waiting.
Trusting.
Mira closed her eyes.
Then, slowly, she lifted her pencil.
And began to draw.
Each line became a bridge.
Each stroke, a voice.
Each image, a story remembered.
And somewhere in the space between silence and sound, something ancient stirred.
Something that had been waiting—for years, for decades—to be heard.