Chapter Two - The Echo Box

CHAPTER TWO

The Echo Box

THERE’S A STORY your parents never told you.
Not because they forgot, because they never remembered it in the first place.

It happened when you were six.
Or maybe nine.
Or maybe you haven’t reached that age yet.

You were alone in your room.
You’d just woken up from a nap, the kind that leaves a buzzing in your bones.
The sun was coming in at the wrong angle. It made your toys look like they were facing the wall.
Not in a “fell over” kind of way, more like a “don’t look at me” kind of way.

There was a box in the corner.
You didn’t own a box.
You never remembered seeing it before.

You opened it anyway.

Inside was a recording of your voice.
But you weren’t saying anything you remembered saying.
Just breathing.
Then whispering.
Then counting, slowly, backwards.
From seventeen to one.

Then silence.

Then, very faintly:

“Did you find me?”

You closed the lid.
You turned around.
And there was no box.

There never was.

You’re remembering it now, aren’t you?

Not the details, just the feeling.
That loose thread in the back of your brain.
That weird moment that didn’t fit.
That dream you thought was just a dream.

It wasn’t.

The story doesn’t want to be read.
But it does want to be finished.

And now that you’ve read this far, it has your voice.
It has your attention.