The Sound of Echoes

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Chapter 5: The Sound of Echoes

The storm didn’t let up.

All night it raged, howling through the city like a cry too long held in. Zayne barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Noah—laughing, slipping, disappearing into darkness. His own scream echoing off damp tunnel walls.

And Mira’s voice: “You were scared. You tried.”

By morning, the rain had settled into a whisper. The world outside his apartment was washed clean, but inside him, the weight remained.

Zayne sat at the window, a mug of untouched coffee cooling in his hand. Down below, the city blinked slowly awake. Buses rolled by, people rushed under umbrellas, water dripped steadily from rooftops.

Then—he saw it.

A figure standing at the edge of the street.

A boy.

Soaked. Still. Staring directly up at him.

Zayne’s heart stuttered.

He blinked, stood, pressed his hand to the glass. But the street was empty.

Gone.

He stumbled back from the window, chest tight. Was it a trick of the light? A memory projected onto the wet pavement?

Or was it—

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

Still, the image clung to him all day. At the garage, he dropped tools. Snapped at Eli. Nearly spilled oil over a customer’s paperwork.

“You look like hell, man,” Eli said. “Rough night?”

Zayne opened his mouth, then shut it. How could he explain that the past was unraveling in his hands? That he might have seen a ghost—or a ghost of a memory?

By evening, the need to do something burned in his veins.

He didn’t wait for Tuesday this time.

Instead, he found himself back at the streetlamp. The one where Mira had told him the truth. The one where the storm had swallowed more than just a boy.

The bench was still there. Wet. Splintered.

And beside it—an envelope.

Zayne froze.

It was damp but untouched, like the rain had parted around it. His name was scrawled across the front in smudged, looping letters.

Zayne.

Hands shaking, he tore it open.

Inside—just a photograph.

Three kids. Summer. A muddy field.

Zayne recognized himself on the left—smaller, sunburned, grinning.

Mira on the right—pigtails, two scraped knees.

And in the middle: Noah. Arm slung around both of them. Laughing like nothing could ever go wrong.

Zayne’s throat closed.

On the back of the photo, in a different hand, were the words:

"You still have a promise to keep."

He looked around, heart pounding. The street was empty. No sign of anyone.

"Mira?" he called out.

No answer.

Then, a sound—quiet but distinct.

A boy’s laughter.

It drifted through the air like wind chimes—light, echoing, impossible.

Zayne turned toward the sound.

It led him toward the alley.

Past the old brick wall. Toward the forgotten storm drain.

And there—scrawled on the wall in chalk, barely visible under years of grime—were three words:

“Still waiting, Z.”

He stepped back.

Everything inside him screamed to run. But his feet didn’t move.

Instead, he whispered, "Noah?"

Silence.

And then—just for a moment—he felt it.

A hand on his shoulder.

Small. Light. Familiar.

But when he turned, no one was there.

Only the rain.

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Zayne staggered home with the photograph clenched in his hand.

That night, he dreamed in rain and echoes.

Noah standing at the tunnel’s edge, holding out a hand.

Mira watching from the bus stop, her umbrella glowing crimson in the dark.

And himself—caught between past and present, the boy he was and the man he’d become.

When he woke, the photo lay on his chest.

Dry.

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