Echoes

Rain tapped gently against the warped windowpanes, soft and irregular like fingers drumming to a tune no one else could hear. The light inside the classroom was dim, the kind of flickering amber that made everything look older, slower. The candle on the teacher's desk burned low, its wax pooling across paper already stained with years.

Cala sat in the far corner of the room, one row from the back. Her chin hovered inches above the desk, her small fingers pressing hard into the edges of her workbook. She wasn't doodling. Wasn't daydreaming. She was trying. Eyes scanning left to right, then again, then again, as if repetition alone could force the words to make sense.

Ian noticed.

He didn't mean to. He wasn't paying attention to much himself. The lesson, something about scripture transference, some obscure rite,was delivered in a monotone from a voice behind a sheet of humidity. But Cala? Cala was trying so hard it was painful to look at.

She didn't raise her hand. She didn't ask questions. But her lips moved every now and then, repeating phrases under her breath like she was convincing herself they existed.

The desk beside her was empty.

Ian turned his head just slightly. There were no books on it. No candle stub. No name tag carved into the wood like all the others. But the surface was worn smooth, smoother than any of the others, like someone had rested their elbows there every day for years.

Ian blinked. Maybe he was imagining it. But it looked like someone should be sitting there.

He slid his foot against the floor, quietly as he could and leaned to the kid next to him. "Mind if we switch?"

The boy shrugged and moved over without question.

Now Ian was sitting next to her.

Cala didn't look up.

He kept his voice low. "Need help?"

She blinked at her page, then turned toward him, startled but not scared. Her voice was faint. "I used to be better at this."

He glanced at her notebook. Her writing was neat, but some of the words were copied wrong. She'd spelled 'divine' as 'divide.' 'Remembrance' as 'remainder.'

"Used to?" he asked.

She gave a small nod. "My brother helped me with lessons. Before he went missing."

Ian stilled. "Brother?"

"Leor."

He frowned. "Leor?"

Something about the name felt off in his mouth. Like it had no weight. Like it wasn't meant to be said out loud anymore.

"I've never heard of a Leor here," he said slowly, glancing around.

He turned his head. "What about you guys?"

Isaac didn't lift his eyes from the book propped lazily against his forearm. "Nope."

Isabelle, across the aisle, looked up at the sound of her name, then back to the lesson. She shook her head once, as if swatting away a fly.

Cala's face didn't change. "He helped me every day. Then he left. Or disappeared. Or…"

Her voice faltered. "I don't know. No one's looking for him."

Ian leaned forward, careful not to let the teacher hear.

"Do your parents know where he went?"

"They're gone too," she said. "They've been gone forever."

She stared back at her page, pencil hovering in place.

"So now I don't live with anybody."

Ian swallowed. The room felt colder than it had a moment ago.

There was a pause. Not silence the rain was still ticking along the windows, and the teacher's chalk scraped gently against the blackboard, but a pause. A moment where something ought to be said, and no one said it.

Ian didn't know what to do with Cala's words. They felt too heavy to carry but too important to leave alone.

He was about to respond when a voice cut in from behind.

"Still talking about your ghost brother?"

Tomas dropped into the seat next to Ian, a crooked grin on his face like he didn't mean any harm. He rested his elbow on the desk and leaned in slightly, eyes flicking from Cala to Ian and back.

"Don't let her get in your head," he said, casual. "She's been saying that since before the trials. It's just how she copes. Poor thing's been alone for years."

Cala didn't look at him. She didn't even flinch.

Tomas kept going, voice low but not unkind. "She used to say he lived in the walls. That he was going to break them open and pull her through." He gave a little shrug. "I think that's the first time she said his name, though. 'Leor,' was it?"

He said the name like it tasted off. Like he was trying it out for the first time and didn't like how it sat on his tongue.

Ian didn't laugh. Didn't nod. Just stared at the grain in his desk.

"She's just... y'know," Tomas said, letting the sentence trail off. "No harm in it, I guess. But it's not good to play along."

He stood up, stretching lazily. "See you after class, man."

Cala still hadn't moved. Her eyes were locked on her workbook, lips parted just slightly.

Ian looked back at her. "He's real?"

She nodded once.

He wanted to believe her.

Or no. He did believe her. He just didn't understand why.

The bell had rung, the candles were snuffed, and most of the class had spilled out into the halls with the usual half-hearted chatter — feet dragging, bags slung low, voices bouncing off old stone.

Ian didn't leave.

He moved from one desk to the next, casually. Like he was waiting for someone. Like he wasn't asking something he already knew would get him stares.

He leaned down beside Nella, who was packing up her books with fastidious care.

"Hey. Do you remember anyone named Leor?"

She blinked at him. "Who?"

"Leor. Used to sit with Cala maybe? Her brother?"

Her eyebrows lifted like she'd been asked a math question she hadn't studied for.

"No," she said, a little too quickly. "I don't think so."

He nodded and moved on.

"Did Cala ever mention a brother?"

To Daniel

"No. I don't think she has family."

To Maren

"She's always been kind of... on her own. Right?"

To Aaron

"I think she talks to imaginary people. That's what my mom said."

It kept going. Every answer was different in tone, but identical in meaning:

She's alone. She's always been alone.

You're making something out of nothing.

Ian sat back in his own chair before leaving. The empty desk next to Cala's was still there, still unclaimed, still worn down like time had sat in it.

Funny, he thought.

 If no one ever sat there, why did it look like someone always had?

After class, the rain had slowed, but the clouds still hung low and sickly over the village rooftops. Ian wandered the stone paths near the edge of the square, hands in his pockets, steps without a destination. He told himself he was just wasting time before chores. That's all.

But his feet led him to the front of Jack's shop.

Inside, the old man was stacking loaves behind the counter, humming under his breath. The lanternlight made his glasses glow.

Ian pushed the door open, letting in a wet gust.

Jack looked up. "Afternoon, wanderer."

Ian gave a small wave. "Hey. Uh… got a second?"

Jack leaned on the counter, wiping flour off his hands. "For you? Always."

Ian hesitated. Then: "Do you remember a kid named Leor? About my age. Maybe a little older. Used to sit in the back row."

Jack's brow creased just slightly.

"No," he said. "Don't think so."

"You sure? Lived with Cala?"

Jack's face softened. "Cala's the little one who sits alone, right? Hair like straw?"

"Yeah."

"She's a sweet thing," Jack said. "Lonely, though. Talks to herself sometimes. Breaks my heart."

"So you've never seen her with anyone?"

Jack shook his head. "Always been by herself, far as I know. I thought she was an orphan."

Ian didn't reply.

Jack added, kindly, "She's not hurting anyone. It's just the way some children cope."

Later that afternoon, Ian found Lily skipping rocks near the runoff stream behind the school. Her feet were bare. Her dress muddy. She didn't stop when he approached.

"Hey" he said.

She didnt look up and kept skipping rocks.

"You ever talk to a girl named Cala?"

"Cala? Oh you mean the weird girl?" she threw another rock

Ian scratches his head " Yeah the weird girl," "You ever hang out with her"

"No.

"Why not?"

"She's weird"

"Right." "Well, Lily have you ever noticed her with anyone else?", he continues " Maybe someone around my age?"

"You talk a lot and you look funny." Lily drops her rocks and starts walking away.

"She talks like there's people around when there's not. I sat next to her once and she said I was in his spot." Lily made a face. "I don't know who 'he' is. But she looked mad. I don't like her."

"She's not mean," Ian said.

"She's scary."

Lily keeps walking. 

Ian stares at his reflection in the stream.

"I look funny?"

He walks down the stream thinking to himself. He thought about Cala. About the way her pencil trembled when she wrote. The way she laughed, once, like it hurt to remember how.

Everyone said the same thing. She was lonely. She was sad. She was coping. She was lying.

She made him up.

So why couldn't he shake the feeling that they were all wrong?

The path to Cala's house curved along the edge of the village, past a thicket of trees and a broken stone wall no one had ever gotten around to repairing. Her house sat behind it, hunched low into the hill like it was trying to disappear. The windows were fogged. The door was closed.

Ian stood across the street, hands in his coat pockets. He wasn't sure what he was doing. He told himself it was just curiosity. That he just wanted to check on her.

Then the door opened.

A man stepped out — robes gray and hooded, one of the Church auxiliaries. He carried nothing, but walked like someone who'd just delivered something heavy. Ian ducked behind the wall and waited.

The man didn't look back. He moved down the road and vanished into the mist.

Only when the air felt still again did Ian approach the door. He tapped once on the glass with a knuckle.

Cala appeared behind the window, blinking.

He lifted a hand and waved, sheepish.

She opened the door without a word.

"Hey," he said. "I brought you something."

He pulled it from behind his back a half-crushed, flour-wrapped bundle stolen from Jack's countertop. A bun, maybe. Or what was supposed to be a bun.

Cala stared at it.

"I think it's sweet," Ian added. "Maybe. I don't know."

To prove it, he tore a piece off and took a bite.

He gagged almost immediately and spat it into his sleeve.

"God," he coughed. "Sorry. I forgot Mary's the one who bakes on Thursdays."

Cala let out a soft, surprised sound. And then she laughed.

It was small, but clear. Like something had been pulled up from the bottom of a well.

"Big brother used to make me laugh all the time," she said.

Ian froze at the phrase. She said it so naturally. Not sadly. Not dramatically. Just remembering.

The inside of the house was dim and slightly damp. One candle was burning on the table. The walls were bare. There were no pictures. No furniture except the basics. It didn't look lived in. It looked like someone had stayed here for a while, and then left suddenly.

Ian sat on the floor while Cala chewed the rest of the bun carefully, like it was something special.

He looked around.

"Do you have a photo of him?" Ian asked.

Cala shook her head.

"Anything he left behind? Clothes? A toy?"

"No."

"His room?"

She blinked, like the question confused her. "There's only one bedroom."

Ian sat back a little, spine touching the cold wall behind him. Something in his chest loosened — not relief, but a slow, aching drop. He didn't know what answer he'd been hoping for, but it wasn't that one.

"So there's… nothing?"

Cala looked down at her hands, small fingers pulling at a loose thread in her sleeve.

"I remember him," she said softly. "That's enough."

Ian didn't speak.

He wanted to. The silence between them was thick , not awkward, but frightening. He almost said something safe. Something logical.

Maybe you're remembering wrong.

Maybe it was just a dream.

Something adults said when they didn't want to admit they were scared too.

But when he looked at her , really looked, the words dissolved.

There was no daze in her expression. No wildness. No blur of fantasy trying to soften the edge.

Just grief.

Old, weathered grief.

The kind that didn't howl or shatter or beg for attention ,it just sat there. Still. Heavy. Patient.

Like it had lived in this house longer than she had.

Like it knew its place at the table.

Ian swallowed and looked away.

It felt wrong, like he was trespassing inside someone else's ruin.

Ian stood slowly, unsure of what to do with his hands. "I should get going," he said. The words felt flimsy. Too small for the weight in the room.

Cala only nodded. She didn't try to stop him.

He followed her to the front door. She moved quietly, her footsteps barely making a sound on the warped floorboards. The house seemed even more hollow now, like it had exhaled and forgotten how to breathe in again.

Outside, the clouds had thickened. The air pressed damp against his skin. He stepped onto the grass and pulled his hood up, blinking into the gray.

He turned to wave.

Cala stood in the doorway , pale, thin, a flicker of candlelight at her back. Her eyes were wide, watching him like she was waiting for something. Like she knew something he didn't.

"Wait," she said.

He stopped.

"Do you hear it?" she asked.

Her voice wasn't afraid. It wasn't hopeful either. It was resigned. Like someone asking for the sake of formality, already knowing the answer.

Ian opened his mouth and nothing came out.

Of course I don't hear it, he thought.

It wasn't cruel. He didn't mean it like that. It was just… true. There was no sound. No bell. No echo.

Just wind. Just silence.

He looked at her, at the way she stood like a statue carved from something breakable and something cracked inside him.

He didn't even feel the tears at first. They came quiet. Not gasping, not loud. Just... falling.

A slow, hot spill down his cheeks, like the truth leaking out of him.

He wasn't crying because he believed her.

He was crying because he didn't.

Because he wanted to.

Because some part of him was terrified that maybe she wasn't wrong, and if she wasn't, that meant the world was a lot darker than he wanted it to be.

Then it happened.

A bell rang.

Clear. Soft. Not from far away , not from the tower , but somewhere close, like it had passed through the trees, through the grass, through him.

It rang just once.

And in that moment, the world changed shape.

Ian's breath caught. His tears stopped, frozen midfall.

Cala looked past him, eyes fixed on something in the mist.

Like she was seeing something he couldn't.

"He's still looking," she whispered.

Ian stood there, paralyzed.

The bell hadn't echoed. It didn't ring through the village or bounce off rooftops.

It just... existed. For them.

A sound that should've faded, but didn't. It stayed behind his ribs like a handprint. Like a memory he hadn't made yet.

He turned slowly to her.

"I heard it," he said, voice barely audible.

Her face didn't change. But she stepped back inside and closed the door gently. Like something precious had just been confirmed.

Ian stood there for a long time.

The sky never cleared.

The bell never rang again.

But the silence wasn't the same anymore.