The evening drags in slowly, the fading light outside casting long shadows that creep along the walls, twisting the familiar shapes of the apartment into something...off. I've kept the blinds shut, but the cracks let in just enough dying daylight to make the room feel in-between—half-lit, half-forgotten.

Max is quiet now, curled on the floor by my feet, but I can see the tension in his little body. Every so often, his ears twitch, and he lifts his head, glancing at the guitar leaning against the wall. It hasn't made another sound, not since that last soft creak earlier today, but the unease it left behind has settled deep in my chest, a weight I can't shake.

I try to distract myself with mundane things—dishes, laundry, anything to keep my hands busy—but my mind is far from still. The quiet in the apartment is unnatural, heavier than before, like something's waiting. I can't shake the sensation that I'm being watched, that if I turned around fast enough, I'd catch a glimpse of something, someone just out of sight.

I haven't even bothered to turn the lights on. The dim glow from the streetlamp outside is enough to let me see what I need to see—and if I'm honest, I'm scared of what might happen if I flood the place with light. If I expose whatever it is that feels like it's lurking in the corners.

The clock ticks, louder than it should, every second punctuating the silence. I've never noticed how loud the clock is before. My breath is shallow, my thoughts jumbled, replaying the events of the day. The knocking, the creak, the emptiness that shouldn't feel so alive.

I sit on the edge of the couch, arms wrapped around my knees, my body stiff with tension. I keep glancing toward the front door, half-expecting to hear another knock, even though I know—I know—no one will be there. Or worse, someone might. Someone who doesn't belong.

Max lifts his head again. This time, his ears perk and his body stiffens, eyes locked on the hallway. My heart skips. I can't hear anything. But Max can. He knows something's off, too.

I stand slowly, barely aware of my feet moving beneath me as I walk toward the hallway, Max at my heels. The light from the streetlamp casts faint shadows against the walls, the edges of everything blurred. I can't shake the feeling that this is wrong—that I shouldn't be doing this. But I can't stop myself.

As I approach the hallway, I hear it. A soft whisper.

My breath hitches. The sound is so faint, so soft, I can't make out the words, but it's there. Just at the edge of hearing, like a voice carried on the wind. I freeze, my heart pounding, my pulse rushing in my ears.

No. This isn't real. It can't be real.

But it is.

I take another step, my body trembling as I strain to hear. The whisper comes again, clearer this time, just a few words—but they stop me cold.

"Hey, Ettie..."

Tyler's voice. Faint but unmistakable.

No! No, no, no. My head spins, my vision blurring as I stumble backward, my back hitting the wall. This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

Max growls low, a deep rumble in his throat, his eyes fixated on the darkness at the end of the hallway. I grab onto the doorframe to steady myself, breathing hard, my heart thudding against my ribs so loud it drowns out everything else.

The whisper fades, leaving the apartment in total, oppressive silence. It takes me a full minute to move, to force myself to breathe. My hands are trembling, my skin clammy. I keep waiting for the sound to come back, for Tyler's voice to fill the space again.

But it doesn't.

I'm losing my mind. I have to be. Grief does this—it warps your thoughts, makes you see things, hear things that aren't really there. But God, it sounded so real. For a moment, I could almost feel him. Almost believe he was here.

I stumble back into the living room, collapsing onto the couch, my entire body shaking with adrenaline. Max follows, pacing in front of me, still uneasy. His growl has stopped, but the tension hasn't left him.

I run my hands through my long, curly raven hair, trying to calm down, trying to tell myself that this is just...grief. That it's just my brain, desperate to cling to Tyler in any way it can. I close my eyes and breathe, focusing on the rise and fall of my chest, on the feeling of the couch beneath me, on anything real and solid.

Yet nothing happens.

The apartment still feels wrong. And the sound of Tyler's voice is still echoing in my mind, as clear as the day he last spoke to me.

The hours slip by, and I find myself sitting at the kitchen table, my hands wrapped around a mug of cold tea. I've been staring at the same spot on the wall for who knows how long, lost in thought, replaying every moment of our last conversation.

It was about Max.

"You sure you're ready for all the responsibility?" Tyler had teased, that smile lighting up his eyes. "I mean, he's basically a tiny toddler with fur."

I'd laughed, swatting him on the arm. "If I can handle twenty screaming kids in a classroom, I can handle a puppy."

He'd smiled that soft smile, the one he saved for moments when he wasn't teasing, when he was looking at me like I was the only thing that mattered. "Yeah, I know you can."

The memory twists in my chest, squeezing tight until I can't breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the pain to subside, but it only grows, digging deeper with every passing second.

I hear my phone vibrate on the counter, a soft buzzing that shatters the silence. I don't move. I know it's probably Chloe or my mom again, checking in on me, trying to pull me out of this pit I've dug myself into. I don't want to talk to them. I don't want to talk to anyone.

Suddenly, the buzzing stops, replaced by the familiar chime of a voicemail notification.

A heavy sigh escapes me, and I reach for the phone without thinking. I'm about to swipe it away when I notice something strange—an unknown number. Not Chloe. Not my mom.

I frown, staring at the screen, my heart starting to race again. No one else would call me, not now. I don't have the energy for curiosity, but something about that number nags at me, pulls at me until I can't ignore it.

My thumb hovers over the voicemail icon for a moment before I press it, my breath catching in my throat as I hold the phone to my ear. There's a click, and then static.

It lasts for several long, tense seconds. Just static, crackling and hissing, like an old radio tuned to the wrong station.

And then, through the static, I hear it again.

"Ettie?"

I almost drop the phone. Tyler's voice. I freeze, every nerve in my body on edge, my heart hammering so hard I feel dizzy. It's garbled, distorted, but it's him. I know it's him. His voice is soft, faint, but I hear it.

"Hey, Ettie..."

The message ends abruptly, cutting off as if the line was disconnected. Silence floods the room again, leaving me breathless, my pulse pounding in my ears. I stare at the phone in disbelief, my mind racing.

It's not possible! Tyler's dead?! He's gone! He can't be leaving voicemails—he can't be whispering to me from the shadows of the apartment. But the voice was his. It was his.

My hands shake as I lower the phone, my thoughts spinning out of control. I replay the voicemail, again and again, hoping to hear something different, hoping it'll change, that I'll realize it's some trick of technology, some glitch.

Though it's the same. Every time.

Tyler's voice. Calling my name.

I grip the edge of the table, staring down at my hands, feeling the panic rising. It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. But I can't deny what I've heard, what I've felt since the moment that knock sounded on Tyler's guitar.

There's something happening here. Something I can't explain.

And I'm terrified to find out what it is.