Page 40 of Lost Echoes

Dr. Hanson’s voice is calm, sure. “Good. That’s the truth. You were forced. You survived, and now you’re remembering.”

I draw a shuddering breath. Fear still coils in me, but under it is something else—resolve.

Because I know now what I’m fighting against.

My body won’t stop trembling, but I feel lighter, like a knot has finally loosened.

Dr. Hanson doesn’t move, doesn’t rush in to comfort me, just holds my gaze. Her stillness steadies me more than any hug could. “That was the first step. You named what they did. You reclaimed a piece of yourself.”

I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve. “It hurts. I feel… hollow.”

“That’s normal,” she says gently. “But listen to me, Kenzi. The further we go, the sharper it will get. Memories you’ve buried aren’t gone, they’re waiting. And when they surface, they can come like fire. You need to be ready for that.”

A chill runs down my spine. “What if I’m not strong enough? What if I remember something so terrible I can’t come back from it?”

Her expression softens, but her voice stays firm. “Then I’ll be here to ground you. We’ll face it together. But hiding from the truth won’t make it disappear. It will only leave it festering inside you.”

I nod, though fear knots my stomach. She’s right. The shadows won’t stop whispering until I shine a light on them and make them disappear.

“I want to keep going,” I whisper. “For Fenna and Ember. If I don’t understand what they did to me, I’ll always be a danger to them.”

Dr. Hanson closes the folder, leaving it between us like a line we’ll cross again soon. “Then we’ll build a framework. Controlled sessions, one piece of the script at a time. You’ll keep a journal for flashes that come outside. And together, we’ll thread the memories until you see the whole pattern.”

Her words settle into me—hope laced with dread. A roadmap to the truth, but one lined with landmines.

I glance at the window. My reflection stares back again. My face, pale and weary, but behind it I see the shadow of the child I was, wide-eyed and shaking under the lights.

The two of us overlap. This, somehow, feels like progress.

And in the hollow silence, the thought slips through before I can stop it.

The performance isn’t over. It never ended. And I’m still following someone else’s script.

But soon I’ll be following my own.

21

Billa

Most nights at Radley blur into the same rhythm—clothes and bedding to wash, files to log, supervisors to appease. But tonight my chest feels tight, like the walls know what I’ve been piecing together.

The white spool, the one-eyed bear, and the Radley grant.

All threads tugging me here.

I swipe my badge and move past the nurses’ station, heart pounding harder than it should as I push my cart of linens. I shouldn’t be doing this alone and without clearance, but I can’t stop thinking about what the survivors said. Observation 2. Sub-level B. If experiments happened, they didn’t happen in the open.

They had to have happened below. The staff elevators only go down one level. But I’ve been here long enough to notice how the building doesn’t add up. The blueprints in the safety binder stop at Ground and Sub-level A, but the way the air flows in the stairwells, the thickness of the walls hints at more.

I leave the cart and slip into the west stairwell, holding my breath as the heavy door thuds shut behind me. Fluorescent bulbs hum overhead, casting a harsh light on the concrete steps. I descend past the floor marked “B1.” The stairs don’t end.

Halfway down, a locked door, painted gray, the kind that doesn’t invite attention. A metal sign hangs crooked: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

My palms sweat. I crouch, running my fingers along the seam where the door meets the frame. Rust flakes against my skin. Someone used this often enough that the paint is worn at hip level where a badge would swipe. My throat tightens.

I press my ear to the door. Nothing. Just the hum of air, steady, low—ventilation from somewhere deeper.

The same vents the survivors described.