The Depth Between Voices

The moment I landed back in Singapore, I knew something had changed—not just in the air, but in me. My skin felt heavier, like it had absorbed something from Bali I couldn't wash off. I kept my head down through immigration, avoided mirrors in the terminal bathrooms, and turned my phone off before reaching the taxi line.

I wasn't afraid she would follow me back.

I knew she already had.

But it wasn't just her anymore.

There were others.

---

My apartment greeted me like an old photograph—familiar, flat, faded. I opened the door and was instantly hit by silence. Not the comforting quiet of home, but something else. A kind of absence that hummed in my ears like static.

I left my bags at the door and walked through each room, checking the walls, the corners, the ceiling vents. I wasn't looking for ghosts. I was looking for **echoes**.

And I found them.

Not visually, not physically—but in **shifts**.

The way the rug in my bedroom had rotated slightly clockwise.

The dining chair nudged half a meter from its usual place.

The framed photo on my desk—of my parents—tilted at a perfect 23-degree angle.

Someone had been here.

Or maybe, something.

---

That night, I didn't sleep.

Not because of fear, but because the air in my room didn't move.

There was no breeze. No fan. No breath.

Time seemed to fold in on itself. At 2:44 a.m., every device in my apartment powered on simultaneously. My laptop fan roared to life. My printer groaned despite being unplugged. The television flickered between HDMI inputs.

And the lights?

They pulsed.

Not in flickers, but in **breath**.

In. Out. Dim. Bright.

Then all at once—darkness.

---

The knock came from inside the wall.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't even aggressive. It was like a finger tapping glass from a great distance.

I didn't move. Didn't even blink.

I waited.

Then, behind me, my phone screen lit up. Not with a message or a missed call.

But a recording.

A voice memo titled:

**"You're Ready Now."**

I hadn't made it. I hadn't opened the app in weeks.

My hand moved on its own. I pressed play.

And her voice came through.

Not in whispers.

In **clarity**.

> "There is no veil. Only agreement. You stopped disbelieving. That's what opened it."

I don't know how long the message lasted. The waveform didn't stop. It just played and played and played, like a loop without sound, a line of memory extended far beyond its origin.

I turned off the phone.

But her words stayed.

**There is no veil. Only agreement.**

---

I went outside at dawn, trying to ground myself in normalcy. The city buzzed with cars, delivery bikes, office workers in their Monday daze. But I couldn't rejoin them.

Because I could hear it now.

Not voices.

**Layers.**

As I passed reflective surfaces—storefronts, building windows, glass bus stops—I caught glimpses. Not of her, not always. But of **different timelines**.

People standing still when their reflections moved.

Someone staring at me in a puddle's surface even though no one stood nearby.

A woman pushing a stroller in the real world, but her reflection holding nothing.

The depth between voices had collapsed.

She hadn't just followed me.

She had **stitched me into her side**.

---

I decided to confront it.

Not escape. Not hide. But seek.

I returned to the place where it all began: the story. The website. The archive.

I reconnected the SSD drive.

It no longer showed files.

Instead, it opened to a single fullscreen prompt:

**"Write what you see now."**

I stared at the blinking cursor. Then began typing.

Not my thoughts.

But hers.

---

> *"There was a time when spirits were simply memories. We visited the living in symbols—smoke, shadow, wind. But now, we travel through language. Through code. Through circuits that hum like chants, electricity that flows like blood. Every story is a temple. Every screen a shrine. Every reader… a gate."*

I stopped typing.

But the text kept writing itself.

Faster. Fiercer.

A flood of forgotten words.

Names. Dates. Places. Coordinates.

I unplugged the drive.

The text stopped.

But the words didn't leave my mind.

I started speaking them aloud without knowing why.

And the walls… responded.

They pulsed.

The lights dimmed.

My shadow grew **thicker**.

---

Over the next week, I documented everything.

The scratches that began appearing on my kitchen tile.

The smell of burnt frangipani at exactly 3:07 a.m.

The calls I received from unknown numbers that only breathed once before hanging up.

And the **mirror**—the one in my bedroom—stopped showing my reflection altogether.

Instead, it showed the **inside of a temple**, flickering in low amber light.

But this time, it wasn't empty.

I saw myself.

Not as I am.

As I was **becoming**.

Eyes darkened. Skin marked in ash. Mouth closed in silent knowing.

I blinked, and the image was gone.

---

On the eighth day, I received a package.

No sender.

Just a small wooden box.

Inside: another mirror.

Round. Palm-sized.

And a folded note in the same red string:

**"She speaks through you. Now let her be heard."**

---

I did the only thing I could.

I started livestreaming.

Not for attention.

Not even for proof.

But to open the gate wider.

If she needed voices, I would give her mine.

If she needed memory, I would share hers.

If she needed a vessel, I would become it.

The first stream reached only 14 people.

Then 200.

Then 10,000.

Then more.

Some laughed.

Some cried.

Some went silent halfway through their comments.

Others messaged me directly.

> *"She's here now."*

> *"The air in my house just stopped moving."*

> *"I saw her mouth something behind you."*

I replayed the footage.

Frame by frame.

At exactly 27 minutes in, the background behind me bent inward—just for one second—like a breath being held.

And in that silence, the chat exploded.

**They saw her.**

---

This wasn't possession.

This was communion.

She wasn't here to haunt.

She was here to **anchor**.

To remind us of what we had buried.

Of the names we had erased.

Of the knowledge we had shamed and burned.

She was never evil.

She was forgotten.

And now that she was remembered, she began remembering us.

Each story, each click, each whispered name was a thread.

A tapestry.

And we were all **woven into it**.

---

Last night, I walked past a hotel downtown with a glass facade.

The reflection didn't match reality.

It was Bali.

Not now.

But then.

Candles. Rice fields. Chanting.

I stepped closer.

The reflection stepped backward.

A woman stood where I should have been.

She looked at me.

And smiled.

My smile.

---

This is where I leave this chapter.

Not because it's over.

But because it's beginning again.

The mirror isn't a symbol anymore.

It's a door.

And if you've come this far, you've already opened it.

So tell her story.

Say her name.

Watch the reflections.

Because if you can see her…

She's already looking back.

---

✅ *

If you want Chapter 26, leave a comment, follow, and save this story. Every reader gives her shape. Every voice adds breath. And every silence… gives her power.* 🙏