Mara woke to sunlight streaming through her apartment blinds, a slant of gold cutting across the worn hardwood floor, illuminating motes of dust that danced lazily in the air. The warmth of it brushed her face, coaxing her gently from the depths of slumber, a rare and welcome intrusion into the cocoon of her solitude.
The clock on her nightstand read 9:17 a.m., late for her usual disciplined rhythm, but the sleep had been deep, a blank stretch unbroken by the jagged edges of dreams or the piercing shrieks that had once haunted her nights. She lingered in that quiet expanse, savoring the absence of disturbance, the way the world seemed to pause just for her. Her eyelids fluttered briefly, adjusting to the light, before she let them settle shut again, if only for a moment longer, reluctant to let go of the peace.
She lay still, the radiator's hum a steady pulse beneath the floorboards, a mechanical heartbeat that synced with her own. Her body felt heavy, sunk into the mattress as though gravity itself had claimed her, yet there was a lightness threading through her limbs, a subtle shift she hadn't noticed until now. It had been weeks since she'd felt so unburdened, since the weight of memory and loss had pressed less insistently against her ribs.
The scar on her arm caught the light as she shifted slightly, a thin white line etched into her skin, silent now—no throb, no pull, no whispered reminder of the violence that had carved it there. She traced it with her eyes, not her fingers, letting the sight of it ground her in the present. It was a mark of survival, a testament to what she'd endured, but today it felt dormant, a story told and shelved.
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, a thread of warmth stitched into her marrow. It wasn't the Ellie of frantic calls or desperate pleas, not the Ellie trapped in echoes and ash, but something softer, steadier—a companion in the calm, a piece of her that refused to fade. Mara exhaled slowly, letting that sensation settle, a balm against the raw edges of her past.
She rose, wincing at the stiffness in her shoulder, the scab tugging under a fresh bandage she'd applied the night before. The ache was dull, manageable, a fleeting protest from a body still knitting itself back together. She stretched cautiously, rolling her neck, feeling the crack of joints realigning, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool against her bare feet, a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth of her blankets, and she welcomed it, letting it anchor her fully into the waking world.
The apartment smelled of stale air and yesterday's tea, a grounding contrast to the house's rot and sawdust, those acrid scents that had clung to her clothes and skin for too long. Here, the air was hers—lived-in, familiar, free of the decay that had seeped into every corner of that other place. She padded across the room, her steps soft but purposeful, and pushed open the kitchen door. The faint hiss of the coffee maker greeted her as she set it to brew, the rich, earthy aroma rising to meet her senses, a ritual that felt like a small victory.
Toast followed, the bread browning unevenly in her ancient toaster, the edges curling slightly with a hint of char. She scraped butter across it, the knife rasping against the crisp surface, and ate standing at the counter, crumbs dusting the linoleum. Each step of her morning was deliberate, a reclamation of the ordinary, a quiet defiance against the chaos that had once swallowed her days. The simplicity of it—coffee, toast, the hum of the fridge—was a lifeline, pulling her back to herself piece by piece.
The city buzzed outside, a distant roar she welcomed, its energy spilling through the open window she propped wider with a chipped mug. The sound washed over her, drowning the silence that had once felt oppressive, a chorus of horns and voices and footsteps that reminded her she wasn't alone—not entirely. She leaned against the sill, cradling her coffee, watching the world unfold below: a delivery truck idling, a woman tugging a dog's leash, a child skipping over cracks in the pavement. It was life, messy and loud, and she drank it in.
Days passed, then weeks, each one stacking atop the last like bricks in a wall she was building around herself. She sold the house through a realtor, a quick deal she didn't question, the papers signed in a sterile office with a pen that scratched too loudly against the page. She hadn't gone back—not to see it, not to say goodbye. The memories it held were hers to keep or discard, and she chose the latter, letting it slip away like a shadow at noon. The money sat in her account, untouched, a weight she didn't need yet, a resource she might never need. It was there, a quiet fact, but it didn't define her.
Jen came by often, first with coffee in paper cups, then with takeout bags that crinkled as she unpacked them on Mara's small table. Her chatter filled the gaps Mara couldn't, a steady stream of stories about work, her boyfriend's latest quirks, the stray cat she'd fed on her stoop. Mara listened, nodding, sometimes smiling, letting the sound of Jen's voice weave a net around the hollow inside her. It didn't vanish—that empty space where grief had carved its name—but it shrank, bit by bit, becoming a shadow she could carry, a companion rather than a captor.
Work called her back eventually, the office a familiar maze of filing cabinets and ringing phones. She slipped into the rhythm easily—sorting papers, typing memos, answering calls with a voice that grew steadier each day. Her hands moved with purpose, though they sometimes paused, drifting to the scar absentmindedly, tracing its edges as if to remind herself it was real. Her coworkers didn't ask, didn't pry, and she was grateful for their silence, their casual acceptance of her return.
Two months later, she walked downtown, the air crisp with early spring, the streets alive with people she didn't know and didn't need to. The chill nipped at her cheeks, a sharp, clean bite that woke her senses. She'd started running again, short loops around the block, her breath fogging in the morning air—an old habit from before the house, before Ellie, before everything had unraveled. It felt good, the burn in her legs a steady pulse that pushed out the last echoes of ash and fear, replacing them with the simple ache of exertion. She wasn't fast, wasn't graceful, but she was moving, and that was enough.
She stopped at a thrift store on a whim, drawn by the clutter in the window—books with cracked spines, lamps with frayed cords, a chipped mug she didn't need but considered anyway. The bell above the door jangled as she stepped inside, the air thick with dust and old fabric, a familiar tang that prickled her skin, stirring something deep and unnameable. She browsed slowly, her fingers brushing worn spines, lingering on titles she'd never read, letting the textures ground her in the moment.
A sound stopped her—a faint ring, sharp and distant, buried somewhere in the shelves. Her pulse spiked, a reflex she couldn't kill, a jolt that sent her heart thudding against her ribs. She followed it, weaving through narrow aisles packed with junk—boxes of vinyl records, a dented trumpet, a doll with one glass eye staring blankly upward. The sound grew clearer, a soft chime that tugged at her memory, pulling her toward a corner piled high with forgotten things.
There, half-hidden under a stack of records, was the rotary phone.
It gleamed black, its cord coiled tight like a snake poised to strike, the dial etched with those strange symbols she'd traced in the attic, their shapes burned into her mind. It rang again, soft but insistent, the bell trembling under her stare, a call she couldn't ignore. The shop was quiet—no one else seemed to hear it, the clerk flipping pages at the counter, oblivious, the few other customers lost in their own searches.
Mara's hand hovered, the memory of Ellie's voice tugging at her—I'm already here—a whisper from months ago that echoed in her skull. But the scar stayed cold, her chest steady, her breath even. She wasn't that Mara anymore, not the one who'd answered that call, not the one who'd bled for it. She stepped back, exhaling a breath she hadn't realized she'd held, 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 whole, and she kept going, the city wrapping around her like a shield, its noise and motion a bulwark against the past. 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, a quiet strength woven into her core.
That night, she cooked—a simple pasta, the kitchen warm with steam, the scent of garlic and olive oil curling through the air. She ate alone at the table, the TV murmuring in the background, a low drone of news she didn't fully hear. The routine was a comfort, a scaffolding for her days, and she leaned into it, letting it carry her forward. She slept early, the covers pulled tight, and woke to darkness, the clock glowing 3:04 a.m., its green digits casting a faint light across the room.
The apartment was still, the city hushed beyond the walls, a rare quiet that pressed against her ears. She lay there, breathing slow, waiting for sleep to pull her back under, her mind drifting in the liminal space between waking and dreaming. 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 like a blade. She sat up, heart thudding, her eyes scanning the shadows that pooled in the corners of the room. It came again, faint, from the kitchen, a persistent echo that refused to be ignored.
She slid out of bed, bare feet cold on the floor, the scar tingling faintly, a ghost of its old pulse stirring beneath her skin. The hallway stretched before her, dim and endless, each step a quiet rebellion against the fear clawing at her throat. The landline sat silent on the counter, its cord unplugged—she'd pulled it weeks ago, tired of sales calls and their hollow promises. But the ringing persisted, soft and steady, a thread of sound weaving through the dark, pulling her closer.
She stood motionless, her breath fogging in the dim light filtering through the blinds, and listened as it faded—three rings, then nothing, the silence rushing back thicker than before, heavy with absence. 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, couldn't separate the strands of memory from the present.
It hung in the air, fragile and fleeting, then dissolved, leaving her alone with the hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock, the mundane sounds that tethered her to this life. She didn't move, didn't search, just stood there, the hollow stirring faintly in her chest, a ripple across still water. She went back to bed, pulling the covers tight, and closed her eyes, willing her heartbeat to slow.
The echo was hers—hers to carry, hers to quiet. Sleep came slow, creeping in like fog, but it came, wrapping her in its embrace, and the night held its peace, fragile but unbroken. Mara drifted, the scar silent, Ellie's presence a steady hum beneath her skin, and the world turned on, leaving the phone's call unanswered in the dark.
END