Page 19 of The Sound of Forever
If my therapists from the center were to see this journal, they would be disappointed. I still do daily entries as I’m required. Half the time, it’s just random scribbles to prove I exist—like a simple good morning to myself, as if I’m waiting for a reply that never comes. Other days, it’s fragments of lyrics that drift into my mind, incomplete and hollow. There’s no music anymore. Just words, and even they don’t stick the way they used to.
But this one—this one is different.
Today, something strange happened.
I was on my evening walk, the same route I’ve taken a hundred times, the one that’s supposed to clear my head, keep me grounded before I head to bed. It’s routine, predictable. But then, out of nowhere, I see her—a little girl, running ahead of me.
She was small, darting between the trees like she belonged there, like the forest was hers. I called out, my voice breaking the quiet. But she didn’t turn around.
I don’t know why I followed her. Maybe instinct, maybe curiosity, maybe something deeper that I don’t want to name. My pace quickened, the crunch of leaves under my boots louder than it should’ve been, and yet she didn’t stop, didn’t flinch, and didn’t even slow.
And then she was gone because I couldn’t keep up.
At least that’s what I think, because what’s the alternative?
I stopped, standing there in the middle of the trail, my breath uneven, my heart racing like I’d just run a marathon. The trees loomed around me, their shadows stretching long as the sun dipped lower in the sky.
Was she real?
Is it me thinking my daughter is haunting me?
Or am I losing my fucking mind?
I keep replaying it in my head, the way she moved, the way she didn’t look back. Was she a ghost? Was it my brain, short-circuiting after too much solitude? Or is this some kind of sign, some clue that I don’t understand?
There’s this gnawing feeling in my chest, a mix of dread and something else I can’t name. Like maybe I’m being followed, or maybe I’m chasing something I’ll never catch.
And the worst part? I don’t even know which is scarier.
ChapterTwenty-Five
Julianna
Moving isn’t exactly fun.I haven’t done it in several years for a reason. This time though, I left most of my belongings at the apartment, only bringing clothes and the essentials. After all, this is temporary. And even that feels like too much. The bulk of what I hauled here belongs to Rayne—boxes of her stuffed animals, toys, and fragments of a life that’s been packed and repacked too many times in too few months.
I want this place to feel different for her, a space where she can unpack and see everything she owns, laid out and hers, not crammed into boxes like an afterthought because my apartment is tiny. Even some of Elena’s things are here, pieces of her life I couldn’t bear to leave behind.
The first box I pull from the stack in Rayne’s room is markedMemoriesin Elena’s loopy handwriting. My fingers hesitate on the lid, the scrawl both familiar and foreign. It’s just a cardboard box, worn at the corners, the tape faded and peeling. But it feels like more than a box. Like it’s holding more than just belongings—it’s holding history. Secrets.
I know I shouldn’t hesitate. I should be unpacking, setting up the room so Rayne has something, anything, that feels like hers. But instead, I sit cross-legged on the new rug we unrolled this morning. The room smells faintly of fresh paint and the lavender cleaner I scrubbed into every corner yesterday. It’s still mostly bare—a bed frame without sheets, a dresser, a few empty shelves waiting to be filled.
My hands hover over the box before I tear the brittle tape, the sound unnervingly loud in the still room. The flaps fall open, revealing what’s inside.
On top is a framed photo of our mom. I pause as I pull it free, her smile catching me off guard. It’s wide and warm, her eyes crinkling at the corners like they always did when she was truly happy. The last time I saw this photo was at her funeral. I run my thumb along the edge of the frame, the glass cool against my skin. What’s it doing here? Why would Elena pack this away?
I set the photo aside, digging deeper. The next thing I find is a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon that’s frayed and faded with age. The paper is yellowed, the edges curling slightly, and the handwriting is unmistakably Mom’s.
My hands tremble as I untie the ribbon, the knot coming loose like it’s been waiting for this moment. The first thing I notice is the names on the envelopes: mine, Oscar’s, Elena’s. There’s even one addressed to all three of us.
I stare at the letters, my breath shallow, my pulse thrumming in my ears. Her voice is in those pages. Words she left behind, words I never expected to see.
I pick up the one meant for all of us, my fingers shaking so badly I almost drop it. The envelope is brittle, the paper threatening to crumble as I slide the letter free.
The first line hits me like a blow I didn’t see coming.
My loves, if you’re reading this, I’m already gone. But there are things I need you to know—things I didn’t say when I had the chance.
Her voice floods my mind, so clear, so alive it’s like she’s sitting beside me, speaking the words aloud.
