The Echoes Names

I waited three days before writing again.

Not because I was scared.

But because I needed to be sure the silence I heard was truly silence—and not the kind that waits to speak.

The dreams returned.

This time, not mine alone.

Marissa sent another voice memo. It played like static at first. Then, clear as rain hitting stone:

> "Dewinta stood in my hallway. Her eyes were sewn shut. But she still looked at me. She whispered: 'Don't forget the lake. The red one is still there.'"

Red lake?

I didn't respond right away. I forwarded the file to Amir. He didn't reply until the next day.

Then finally:

> "I saw it too. Not a lake. A crater. Red clay. Smelled like iron. There was something... breathing under it."

That was when I knew: it wasn't just about Nyana anymore.

She was only the first door.

The others were keys.

---

I reopened the journal.

This time, not to write. Just to listen.

Sometimes the ink bled by itself.

This time it didn't.

Instead, the air shifted.

A breeze moved past me though all windows were closed.

The lights dimmed.

And then I heard it.

From the mirror.

A whisper. A name.

**"Tami."**

---

Tami wasn't a name I'd heard outside that one dream. But now, it echoed.

In the tap water. In the clicks of my fan. In the pause between thunder and lightning.

I searched her name.

Nothing.

Then an old news clipping from 2003:

**"Local Girl Missing After Temple Visit in Munduk."**

Tami Pratiwi, 17. Disappeared after a temple festival. Last seen near a sacred pool.

In the black-and-white photo, her eyes held something familiar.

Recognition.

Like she already knew what would happen.

The article ended with one chilling line:

> "Offerings at the water's edge remained untouched."

---

I went to Munduk.

A long, winding drive up the mountain. The village hadn't changed. Time moved slower here. Or maybe, it waited.

I asked about the temple. No one answered.

Until an old man at a warung pointed with his chin.

> "Go after rain. Not before."

> "Why?"

> "Because it breathes after. Not before."

---

I waited.

Storm clouds came. Rain pounded the roof.

Then, silence.

I walked toward the old temple.

The pool was still. Reflective. But it didn't reflect me.

I placed a simple offering: frangipani, a coin, a slip of red cloth.

Nothing happened.

Until I turned to leave.

A girl stood waist-deep in the water. Drenched. Eyes sewn shut. Mouth slightly open.

She didn't speak. But I heard her anyway:

> "Help me be remembered."

Then she sank.

Slowly. Calmly.

Gone.

---

That night, I wrote her name in my journal:

**Tami Pratiwi.**

The ink bled, then vanished.

And another name appeared:

**Meira.**

---

Meira wasn't in any article. No online trace.

But she appeared in Amir's dream.

He saw her holding fire—not burning, but glowing, like sacred flame.

She came to him in a train station. The speakers repeated:

> "Light the earth. Break the seal. Return the breath."

I'd heard that before—etched in stone at the villa where Nyana appeared.

It wasn't a prayer. It was a summons.

---

I went back to the villa.

The guardian statue had cracked. Its mouth gone.

Inside the cavity: ash and a folded red cloth.

I opened it. Three words in Balinese script:

**"Meira waits underground."**

---

That night, I couldn't sleep. Not out of fear.

Out of urgency.

I opened my site—not the blog, but the backend.

And there it was.

Views. Hundreds.

From countries I'd never shared the link to: Poland. Brazil. Kenya. Japan.

Then messages:

> "I saw Meira in my fireplace."

> "Why do I keep hearing names in my sleep?"

> "What happens if we forget them again?"

I didn't know the answers.

But I knew I couldn't stop now.

---

I wrote.

Name after name.

Memory after memory.

Not just Nyana, Tami, or Meira.

But the girls who were never named.

Erased before words could protect them.

Buried before memory could carry them.

I dreamed of them.

Faceless.

Mouths sealed with silk.

Eyes open.

Watching.

Because I remembered them.

Because I saw.

Because I wrote.

And now, they echo.

Not ghosts.

Not omens.

They are memory.

And memory does not die—

**Not if we write.**

**Not if we speak.**

**Not if we see.**

---

✅ *If you've made it this far—rate, save, and leave a comment. This st

ory is no longer just mine. It's a voice for the ones who couldn't speak.