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Chapter 12 - The Voices of Closed Mouths

> ("Where do the screams go, when no one is left to hear them?")

---

Day 3 without real sound.

I think.

The clocks don't tick here.

The sun never finishes rising.

Everything feels stuck at the edge of "almost."

But the voices…

They've started to return.

Not his.

Not mine.

But others.

Many.

---

They come from the corners of the room.

The ones that don't exist.

They speak without mouths,

without names,

without warning.

---

> "You said you'd forget him."

> "You said you were stronger now."

> "You lied."

---

I try to answer — but my tongue feels like paper.

Not dry.

Blank.

Every time I try to speak, I taste ink.

Old lyrics I never finished.

---

I walk to the wall — even though there is none.

It turns into a mirror.

I see versions of myself standing behind it.

Not reflections.

Copies.

Each one slightly wrong.

One has no eyes.

One has too many.

One is humming.

---

> "Do you recognize us?"

> "You left us behind, one song at a time."

> "You buried us beneath applause."

> "And now that the crowd is gone…"

They raise their hands in unison.

Point at me.

> "You're alone with us now."

---

Suddenly, a click —

a sound I haven't heard in days.

A cassette tape.

It's playing from the ceiling.

No speaker.

Just the sound.

---

[Tape 1 — 00:00:13]

> "Hey… do you remember the first time you fell in love with your own voice?"

[00:00:32]

> "You didn't sing for them. You sang for him."

[00:01:10]

> "And now he's gone… so why are you still singing?"

---

I cover my ears.

The sound grows louder.

I scream.

But no sound comes out.

Only dust.

The kind that smells like old recording rooms and burned-out lights.

---

On the floor:

a folder.

I open it.

Inside — transcripts.

Typed.

Underlined.

Stained.

---

📄 Therapy Transcript #7 [Redacted]

> Dr. ___: "Do you believe he loved you?"

Patient: "Yes."

Dr. ___: "Then why do you sound unsure?"

Patient: "Because he left."

Dr. ___: "Twice."

Patient: "…Yes."

Dr. ___: "Maybe you're not the one he loved. Maybe it was the silence you created."

Patient: [unintelligible weeping]

---

The paper burns from the edges.

I throw it away.

But the smoke spells out a new sentence across the ceiling:

> "You can't delete memory. You can only distort it."

---

Footsteps echo.

Not mine.

Not his.

But someone else.

A child.

---

I turn —

and there she is.

Eight years old.

Hair messy.

Knees bruised.

Carrying a plastic microphone.

> "You promised you'd never change," she says.

I fall to my knees.

> "I had to," I whisper.

She shakes her head.

> "You had to sing. Not vanish."

Then she opens her mouth —

but instead of words, she plays the last voicemail I got from him:

> "If this is goodbye…

I didn't mean for it to be."

She drops the mic.

Walks into the mirror.

Disappears.

---

I scream again.

This time — it works.

My voice shatters the mirror.

And behind it — nothing.

Just a white door.

Small.

Barely big enough for me.

Carved into it:

> "Admit what you miss most."

(Only then it opens.)

---

I close my eyes.

Breathe.

And whisper:

> "His silence.

Because it used to feel safe."

The door creaks open.

---

I crawl inside.

It leads to a hallway.

Narrow.

Dark.

Flickering with broken TV screens on the walls.

Each screen shows a different version of my life.

One where we never met.

One where he stayed.

One where I never sang.

One where I died before I began.

---

On one of the screens, he speaks directly to me:

> "You don't miss me.

You miss who you were when I believed in you."

I fall to my knees again.

---

From behind me, the tape starts playing again.

[Tape 1 — Final track]

> "They told you to make noise.

But the real art was always in the quiet."

> "Do you hear it now?"

"Do you know who you are —

when no one is listening?"

---

I whisper into the dark:

> "I'm… not sure."

The hallway answers:

> "That's the most honest song you've ever written."

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