Mara woke to sunlight streaming through her apartment blinds, a slant of gold cutting across the floor.
The clock read 9:17 a.m., late for her, but the sleep had been deep, a blank stretch unbroken by dreams or screams.
She lay still, the radiator's hum a steady pulse, her body heavy but lighter than it'd been in weeks.
The scar on her arm caught the light, a thin white line, silent now—no throb, no pull.
Ellie was there, woven into her, a quiet presence she felt in the stillness, not as a voice but as a part of her bones.
She rose, wincing at the stiffness in her shoulder, the scab tugging under a fresh bandage.
The apartment smelled of stale air and yesterday's tea, a grounding contrast to the house's rot and sawdust.
She moved through her routine—coffee brewing, toast burning slightly—each step deliberate, reclaiming the ordinary.
The city buzzed outside, a distant roar she welcomed, and she opened the window wider, letting it drown the silence.
Days passed, then weeks. She sold the house through a realtor, a quick deal she didn't question, the papers signed without a trip back.
The money sat in her account, untouched, a weight she didn't need yet.
Jen came by with coffee, then dinner, her chatter filling the gaps Mara couldn't, and slowly, the hollow shrank—not gone, but smaller, a shadow she could carry.
Work called her back—filing papers, answering phones—a rhythm that steadied her, though her hands sometimes paused, tracing the scar absentmindedly.
Two months later, she walked downtown, the air crisp with early spring, the streets alive with people she didn't know.
She'd started running again, short loops around the block, her breath fogging in the chill—an old habit from before the house, before Ellie.
It felt good, the burn in her legs pushing out the last echoes of ash and fear. She stopped at a thrift store on a whim, drawn by the clutter in the window—books, lamps, a chipped mug she didn't need.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and old fabric, a familiar tang that prickled her skin.
She browsed, her fingers brushing worn spines, until a sound stopped her—a faint ring, sharp and distant, buried in the shelves.
Her pulse spiked, a reflex she couldn't kill, and she followed it, weaving through aisles to a corner piled with junk.
There, half-hidden under a stack of records, was the rotary phone.
It gleamed black, its cord coiled tight, the dial etched with those strange symbols she'd traced in the attic.
It rang again, soft but insistent, the bell trembling under her stare.
The shop was quiet—no one else seemed to hear it, the clerk flipping pages at the counter, oblivious.
Mara's hand hovered, the memory of Ellie's voice tugging at her—I'm already here—but the scar stayed cold, her chest steady.
She stepped back, exhaling, and turned away. It wasn't hers anymore—not her fight, not her ghost.
The ringing faded as she walked out, the door chime swallowing it, and she kept going, the city wrapping around her like a shield.
She didn't look back, didn't need to. Ellie was with her, not in that phone, not in that house—inside, where she belonged.
That night, she cooked—a simple pasta, the kitchen warm with steam—and ate alone, the TV murmuring in the background.
She slept early, the routine a comfort, and woke to darkness, the clock glowing 3:04 a.m.
The apartment was still, the city hushed beyond the walls, and she lay there, breathing slow, waiting for sleep to pull her back.
The phone rang.
Not the landline—not the cell on her nightstand—but a sound from deeper, older, a rotary chime cutting through the quiet.
She sat up, heart thudding, her eyes scanning the shadows.
It came again, faint, from the kitchen, and she slid out of bed, bare feet cold on the floor, the scar tingling faintly, a ghost of its old pulse.
The landline sat silent on the counter, its cord unplugged—she'd pulled it weeks ago, tired of sales calls.
But the ringing persisted, soft and steady, a thread of sound weaving through the dark.
She stood motionless, her breath fogging in the dim light, and listened as it faded, three rings then nothing, the silence rushing back thicker than before.
A whisper followed—barely there, a breath against her ear: Mara. Ellie's voice, or her father's, or her own—she couldn't tell.
It hung in the air, then dissolved, leaving her alone with the hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock.
She didn't move, didn't search, just stood there, the hollow stirring faintly in her chest. She went back to bed, pulling the covers tight, and closed her eyes.
The echo was hers—hers to carry, hers to quiet. Sleep came slow, but it came, and the night held its peace.
END