That night, she heard whispers.

  Not like dreams — they came from the heating vents, a soft murmur, a voice she couldn’t place.

  It was male, familiar, and yet distant, as though time had stretched the sound across years.

  “You never meant to hurt me,” it said.

  Yara froze, her body rigid with fear, her eyes wide as she stared at the ceiling, listening intently.

  The whispering voice was almost comforting, but it felt like an intrusion — a reminder of things long buried.

  "Am I losing my mind?" she wondered, her breath shallow.

  Was this the grief manifesting? Or was Adam really there, somewhere in the walls, in the silence?

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  Maybe she had gone too long without her medication. Maybe she was hearing things.

  But then, deep down, she felt a familiar presence.

  “Maybe I’m losing myself again,” she whispered into the darkness.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d thought that.

  But this time, it wasn’t the meds. It wasn’t just loneliness.

  She opened her journal, but the pages were empty.

  All the words had evaporated, leaving behind nothing but silence.

  She closed it, staring at the black cover.

  The sound of another whisper echoed in the room:

  “But broken doesn’t mean unlovable.”

  For the first time in years, Yara smiled, a slow, trembling curve of her lips.

  It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind her that she wasn’t truly alone.