The voices stopped.
Not all at once.
Not with a scream.
But like a lightbulb slowly dimming in a room you forgot you were in.
The pages stopped bleeding ink.
The recordings stopped playing themselves.
Even the dreams grew quiet.
And in the silence,
you felt it.
That itch behind your thoughts.
That hum that had followed you from the first page.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't guilt.
It was… recognition.
You picked up the first story again.
The one you don't quite remember reading.
About a sound that didn't belong to anyone.
You flip through the others:
The boy in school.The girl whose mouth betrayed her.The man who built a device from memory.The book that wrote while you slept.The whispers in a city without echoes.The mirror that spoke before you did.
They all feel familiar now.
Too familiar.
You find the last page.
Not printed.
Handwritten.
In your own script.
It says:
"You whispered it first.
In the moment between dreams.
Before language.
Before guilt.
Before you knew you were listening."
"This was never a story.
It was your echo."
"Welcome back."
You blink.
And realize the book is no longer in your hands.
It's in your thoughts.
And the whispers?
They've gone quiet…
Because now,
you're the one telling them.