Chasing The Echo

Chapter Thirteen: Beneath the Light

Luca

The city had fallen into that strange, heavy silence that only came after midnight — when everything looked softer, slower, easier to hide in. Luca sat in his car across the street from her building, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other scrolling through the camera feed on his phone. The dim glowing light lit up his face, outlining the faint smile tugging at his lips. Their she was. My Amy.

Her bedroom light spilled through the blinds in thin gold lines, like veins of warmth in the cold night. She moved through the room, her outline gentle, almost ghostlike. He could tell she'd been crying — he'd seen her wipe her face twice before turning away. He didn't like that. She wasn't supposed to cry. She was supposed to sleep peacefully, knowing she wasn't alone — that someone still cared enough to keep watch.

He zoomed in a little, the grainy image shaking as he adjusted focus. She was sitting on the edge of her bed now, her phone glowing in her hand. He waited. Watched the confusion bloom across her face as she read his message.

You shouldn't have left your window open.

It wasn't meant to scare her. Not really. Just... remind her. That he noticed the small things. That he still remembered her habits — like how she always forgot to close the window before bed. The camera caught her jumping up, rushing toward it. She slammed it shut, her movements frantic, the fear sharp in her eyes even through the poor quality feed.

Luca leaned back in his seat, breathing slowly. He knew every inch of that room — the cracks in the wall, the shelf she built herself, the way her curtains never fully closed. He'd been there once, a long time ago, when her laughter still filled the space instead of silence. Now the silence belonged to him. He looked up from the screen, gazing at the faint glow coming from her window. The light went out. "Goodnight, Amy," he whispered. Then he started the car — just long enough for the engine's hum to drown out his thoughts. But before he drove away, he glanced at the photo taped to his dashboard — the one of them together, smiling, younger, before everything broke. He touched her face in the picture with his thumb.

"She still loves me," he said softly. "She just forgot how."

And with that lie — the one he needed more than the truth — he disappeared into the dark, leaving only the echo of his obsession behind.