The kitchen clock ticked past midnight.
Sarah sat at the table, both hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug filled with warm water and honey. The light above flickered faintly, casting long shadows on the floor. The only other sound was the gentle hum of the refrigerator, steady and indifferent.
The hotline number was written on a folded flyer, now open beside her mug.
She hadn't meant to find it.
It had slipped from the pages of her sketchbook—creased, faintly coffee-stained. She didn't recognize the handwriting at the bottom: You're not alone.
She reached for the old landline phone in the corner. A relic. No screen. Just buttons.
Her fingers hovered.
Then pressed.
⸻
Mia sat in the hallway outside, back against the opposite wall. The thin drywall separated them by less than four inches.
She couldn't hear the dial tones.
But she counted them in her chest.
One. Two. Three—
Sarah spoke.
"Hello?"
The word was barely above a whisper.
Then silence.
Then a quiet voice on the other end.
Mia didn't know who answered. It didn't matter.
All that mattered was that Sarah didn't hang up.
⸻
Inside the kitchen, Sarah twisted the cord around her fingers.
"I just…" Her voice cracked. "I don't know what to say."
The voice replied. Calm. Measured.
"You don't have to say anything yet."
Sarah exhaled, something loosening in her shoulders.
"It's late," she said.
"It is."
Another pause.
"I didn't think I'd actually call."
"And yet, here you are."
The corners of Sarah's mouth pulled into something fragile. Not quite a smile. But close.
⸻
Outside the kitchen, Mia closed her eyes. Her heart pounded with each word she couldn't hear. She imagined them. Guessed. Prayed.
The risk of being caught didn't matter. What mattered was that Sarah kept talking.
She could have planted the flyer in a dozen places.
But something had told her to use the sketchbook.
Something told her Sarah would turn to it tonight.
⸻
Sarah rested her elbow on the table, head in her hand.
"I feel like I'm unraveling."
The voice on the line didn't flinch.
"Sometimes unraveling is the beginning of mending."
She went still.
A single tear ran along the curve of her nose.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do next."
"You don't have to know. You just have to stay."
That did it.
Her throat tightened.
She swallowed hard.
"Okay," she whispered.
⸻
The silence after was long but kind. No rush. No pressure.
Just breathing.
Sarah wiped her face with her sleeve.
"I didn't mean to say that," she murmured.
"What you said matters."
She bit her lip.
"I feel like there's something I'm supposed to see. Something just outside of everything."
The voice was quiet for a beat.
"Then let's stay in the light together. Until your eyes adjust."
Sarah's hand tightened around the phone.
"Can I call again?"
"Anytime."
⸻
Mia bit the inside of her cheek.
Relief flooded through her in waves—hot, shaking, real.
She let her head rest back against the wall.
Her eyes burned, but she didn't cry.
This wasn't hers.
This was Sarah's moment.
She was just the echo.
⸻
Inside, Sarah thanked the voice.
They gave her a number to call again. She didn't write it down.
But she'd remember.
Something about the way it had been said made it stay.
She hung up.
Slowly.
Gently.
Then stared at her hands for a long time.
The mug of water had gone cold.
Still, she drank it.
She looked down at the flyer.
The message at the bottom blurred slightly in the overhead light, but she traced it with her finger.
You're not alone.
⸻
Mia slipped down the hallway once Sarah turned off the light.
She waited for the creak of her bedroom door. Listened until the apartment settled.
Then stepped into the kitchen.
The phone still sat on the counter.
The flyer lay folded beneath the mug.
Mia picked it up, eyes scanning the edges.
The ink had smudged.
But the words were still visible.
You're not alone.
She traced the curl of the handwriting with one fingertip.
Then tucked the flyer back beneath the sketchbook.
Not to hide it.
But to keep it close.
She left the mug exactly where it was.
⸻
Sarah, now in bed, stared at the ceiling.
Her heart had slowed. Her hands were still.
The quiet no longer pressed. It wrapped.
She breathed in deep.
Let it out.
And whispered a thank you.
To the voice.
To the page.
To the space that had waited for her.
⸻
Mia returned to her spot by the wall.
Didn't open her notebook.
Didn't write anything down.
She just sat there.
Let the stillness settle.
The echo didn't need a record.
It had been heard.
And that was enough.