Episode 17 – Echoes That Never Returned
970 Words
Nguyen An was just placing his warm tea on the desk when his phone buzzed.
No caller ID. No contact name.
Just a single message glowing on the screen:
“I never disappeared.
You all just stopped remembering me.”
Attached was a file:
“04-Khánh_Returns.wav”
An froze.
“Khánh.”
The name stirred a vague ripple in his memory—like a flickering frame from an old film.
A shadow of a person. A voice once mentioned.
Linh had uttered that name once, long ago, in her very first recording:
“He told me I should record… everything.”
Back then, An had glossed over it—thinking Khánh was just another passerby in Linh’s life.
But now, if this recording was real—he was back.
An clicked the file.
A voice, clear and warm, filled his ears. Calm, deliberate—like someone who’d spent too long in silence.
“If Linh hears this, it means I still exist in some corner of memory.”
“No one disappears completely. People just stop saying their names.”
“An, you’re the only one who can reopen that door.”
An clutched his headphones tighter.
There was no bitterness in Khánh’s tone. No sorrow.
Just a stillness—like someone who had lived long in the dark and was now allowed to speak again.
“I helped Linh build the first memory tier. But then the system changed.
My voice was erased. My name replaced.
Linh tried to preserve me. But what she fought was far bigger than both of us.”
“If you find the Hidden Layer, open file K-Fragment-0.
That’s where the rest of me lives.”
The audio ended.
And An remained silent.
Moments later, a new folder emerged on his screen—unprompted, uninvited.
As if summoned by Khánh’s voice.
Inside the new folder was a single item:
“K-Fragment-0”
Not an audio file.
Just a scanned image of a worn notebook page, the handwriting shaky but precise:
“My name is Khánh.
I wrote the very first line in the notebook Linh carried—but she no longer remembers.
I was the one who said: ‘Record voices, so no one disappears.’
But the system rejected mine.
They replaced me with a version that sounded more acceptable.
That version isn’t wrong. But I have no one left to verify that I existed.”
An stared at the page.
A person—real, once breathing, speaking—now reduced to an unsavable scan.
He tried to record the message aloud.
The audio refused to save.
Each time he pressed “Record,” the device froze… then quietly deleted the file.
An remembered Linh’s old journal—an archived scan from the third-floor library.
Its last page had been blacked out.
He reopened the image. Increased brightness. Reversed colors.
A faint set of words slowly appeared beneath the scribbled ink:
“Khánh once told me:
‘You don’t need to store memories—just live them with someone.’
But I was scared.
Scared that one day, the last person who remembered him… would forget too.”
“I secretly inserted his voice into File 00.
But the system couldn’t recognize him.
It gave me a choice: delete him, or stop recording forever.”
“I chose to continue.
But I kept him in my journal.”
An’s chest tightened.
Linh had known.
She’d tried to keep Khánh alive.
But she lost that battle.
That night, as An sat by his window, his bedroom lights began to flicker.
Not a blackout.
More like… something pushing through reality’s seams.
Then, a knock.
Three even taps on the door.
An opened it.
No one there.
Just a small notebook lying at the threshold.
No name. No title.
Its first page bore a clean, confident line:
“I never left.
I was silenced.
Thank you… for opening the way back.”
The next page had a drawing: a sketch of Linh’s old classroom.
In the center, a red circle marked a desk drawer in the far corner.
The next morning, An arrived at the library before anyone else.
He followed the sketch precisely.
Inside the marked desk, hidden beneath layers of dust, was a small wooden box. Its lock rusted, nearly fused shut.
Inside: a cassette tape.
Label: “Voice 00 – Do Not Replay”
No cassette player in the library could read it.
An brought it home. His father’s old cassette deck still worked.
He pressed “Play.”
The tape hissed. Then a soft, low voice emerged—barely above a whisper:
“My name is Khánh.
I am not a ghost.
I stood beside Linh the day she started recording.
And I promised her:
‘If no one else is left to listen, I will be.’”
“I broke that promise.”
“But if you hear this, carry on.
Be the one who listens in my place.”
An closed his eyes.
Not in sorrow.
But in realization.
This wasn’t an archive.
It was a relay.
A voice passed on like a burning torch.
That night, Nguyen An dreamed.
He stood inside a classroom—old, dusty, abandoned.
Every desk was empty.
Except one.
At the very back, a student sat—facing away.
An stepped closer.
The figure turned.
It was Khánh.
Expression calm. Not mournful.
Just… resolute.
“You remembered me.
That’s all I needed.”
“I don’t need to exist in the system.
I just needed one person to carry my name.”
“Don’t archive me.
Just live forward—as if I was never erased.”
An woke up.
Beside his bed lay a notebook—battered, familiar.
Its first page now read:
“My name is Khánh. I was here.”
To be continued...
- Writer
