Page 82 of Lost Echoes

After he leaves the room to take a work call, I stand and cross to the window. Fenna presses her palms against the glass and giggles. Outside, the front lawn glows with morning light. Several news vans idle by the new gate Graham had built, but I don’t flinch this time.

On the dresser sits a small wooden box Sofia gave me the day I was officially discharged. Inside are three things—a photo of all of us at the facility, the spool now charred and broken, and a folded note in her careful handwriting.

You’re not a story, Kenzi. You’re your own beginning.

I trace the words with my thumb as Fenna tries to grab the paper.

From downstairs, the aromas of bacon and coffee waft up.

I turn to Fenna. “Time for breakfast.”

She doesn’t respond, still distracted by the note.

“Let’s join the others.” I distract my precious baby with a crinkly toy then head for the spiral staircase and to the kitchen.

Billa enters just as Ember pulls the rolls from the oven. She crosses the kitchen and wraps me in a hug so tight it knocks the air from my lungs. When she pulls away, her eyes shine. There’s something grounding about her—that calm she carries like she’s been holding it for both of us.

Ember stands behind her, quieter but no less present. Our unspoken words are louder than anything said could be.

Graham steps in and greets her. “Everything okay? You look like you’ve been through a war.”

Billa’s lips twitch. “Feels about right. Now if I want to see my mom, I have to go to the prison. Half of my coworkers were arrested too. That could’ve been me if I hadn’t been involved in the takedown. Not that I really did that much.”

“You did a lot,” I insist.

Ember sets a tray of rolls down on the table like she’s hosting a state dinner. “I made too many. You have to eat some before Dad does.”

Billa takes one, smiling. “They smell incredible.” But I notice she’s holding something behind her back—a small, rectangular box wrapped in brown paper, tied with white thread.

My stomach knots for just a second as I think about the spool.

Billa nods toward the hall. “Can we talk? Alone.”

“Sure.”

We head for one of the sitting rooms. Ember follows then settles on the couch facing a fire in the hearth.

Billa sets the package on my lap. “It’s from all of us. Florencia helped, and so did Sofia. It’s… not exactly a gift. More like a piece of closure. I think you’ll appreciate it.”

My hands tremble a little as I untie the thread. The paper falls away easily, soft from being folded and refolded. Inside the box is a frame.

Behind the glass is a photo.

It’s grainy, black-and-white, but clear enough to recognize—a stage, empty but lit. The curtain is half-open. And on the floor at the edge of the light, a single cracked, white spool with thread spilling out and forming words across the stage floor.

We remember. We end it here.

My throat tightens. “Where did this come from?”

Her voice is quiet. “From the archive before it collapsed. Sofia found the original reel buried in one of the servers. It’s the last recording before the system went dark.”

Billa adds, “We thought it should live somewhere safe.”

I trace the glass with my fingertips. The thread in the photo looks almost alive, like it’s still moving. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s proof,” Ember says. “Of everything you survived. Of what we stopped.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know how to thank you.”