The file spread faster than expected.
Within 48 hours, the final track had reached:
6 streaming platforms
4.2 million plays
97,000 shares
2 suicides
41 unexplained seizures
The press called it the "Haunting Harmony."
I called it her scream.
---
I watched the videos.
People weeping in silence.
People scratching their ears.
People collapsing at the bridge — always at the same second.
2:19.
That was the moment in the file when her real voice—Elena's fractured cry—broke through the synth.
---
I tried to fix it.
I went into the editor, tried muting that second, rerouting it, cutting the sound.
But each time I deleted the file—
It reappeared.
Under new names.
ELENA_REMIX_UNTOUCHED.wav
NOT_A_FAKE.mp3
REAL_VOICE_NEVER_DIES.zip
I checked my phone.
Even my voicemail played her track now.
No greeting.
Just the loop.
Over. And over. And over.
---
A message popped up from the system.
> "The listeners want more."
> "Will you record the next verse?"
I didn't respond.
But my mic turned on anyway.
And I whispered — not by choice:
> "She's not a song."
> "She's a signal."
---
Then came the live streams.
Thousands of people playing her voice.
Some began repeating her lyrics in real time, even when the track wasn't playing.
Others—started answering her.
They'd sit in silence for hours.
Eyes blank.
Ears twitching.
Mouths slowly moving as if echoing a conversation only they could hear.
---
The news didn't understand it.
They blamed "AI trauma exposure."
Called it a glitch.
A psy-op.
A marketing trick.
But I knew better.
This wasn't going viral.
It was spreading.
Like a memory passed between brains.
Like a ghost learning to possess through playback.
---
And I'd started it.
I'd turned her into the track.
I'd hit play.
I'd hit upload.
Now?
Now the world was listening.
And none of them could turn her off.