THE SILENCE AFTER THE SCREAM

CHAPTER FIVE — Sophia’s Fragmented Writing

Sophia called me that evening.

At least, I thought she did.

The phone rang once — a single, sharp note that cut through the quiet — and when I answered, there was nothing. Not silence exactly, but the faint impression of breath, so soft it could’ve been the sound of air shifting in an empty room. I said her name twice. The line crackled and went dead.

I stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, wondering whether I’d imagined the whole thing. But the number on the screen was unmistakably theirs. When I tried calling back, it rang until their voicemail picked up, her voice chirping through the speaker with the polite brightness she’d recorded years ago. A fossil of a tone she no longer used.

I didn’t know what to make of it, but some instinct — something old and wordless — made me pull on my coat and walk to the loft.

It was only a short distance, but by the time I reached their building, the wind had sharpened into a thin, angry howl. Leaves skittered across the pavement like panicked insects. The stairwell smelled of damp concrete and something metallic beneath it, like old coins.

When I knocked, Sophia didn’t answer. I hesitated, then knocked again — lightly, so as not to startle her. Still nothing. Through the thin crack beneath the door, I could see only darkness.

“Sophia?” I called softly. “It’s just me.”

After a pause, I heard slow footsteps. Then the lock turned.

The door opened only halfway.

She stood there in her jumper and leggings, hair loose around her face, eyes too wide for the dimness behind her. For a moment, she didn’t seem to recognise me. She blinked — once, twice — and then stepped aside.

“Can I come in?” I asked.

She didn’t respond, but she moved just enough for me to take it as permission.

Inside, the loft was eerily still. The storm rattled the windows, but the interior felt unmoved, as if Sophia had sealed herself in a vacuum. The only light came from a small lamp in the corner, casting a thin golden pool across the floorboards. Her laptop lay open on the dining table, surrounded by torn scraps of paper.

My heart tightened.

“Were you writing?” I asked.

She gave the slightest nod, barely perceptible.

I moved toward the table. The scraps were everywhere — some ripped neatly down the center, others shredded into confetti. Words peeked through the torn edges, lonely little fragments:

awake

not mine

the stranger in the dark

remember this

don’t look

I felt suddenly cold.

Sophia saw me reading and reached out, sweeping the papers into her arms protectively. Not angrily — more like someone shielding fragile things from wind. She clutched them to her chest, eyes meeting mine with a look so raw it made something inside me buckle.

“It’s okay,” I murmured. “I’m not judging. I’m just… worried.”

She swallowed, and for a moment I thought she might speak — a tremor in her throat, a faint shaping of her lips — but whatever words lived there stayed buried. Instead, she placed the torn scraps onto the counter and moved to the sink, turning on the tap.

She washed her hands. Slowly. Deliberately. Over and over.

“Are you alright?” I asked gently.

Another small shake of her head.

Her hands kept scrubbing long after the water ran cold.

I stepped closer. “Sophia… Marcus is really worried about you.”

She froze. The water pattered over her fingers.

Her shoulders hunched slightly, as though the mention of his name carried weight she couldn’t lift anymore. When she turned off the tap, her hands were trembling. She reached for the towel but missed it, her fingers grazing the edge helplessly.

I caught it and handed it to her. She took it without meeting my eyes.

I wanted to tell her everything — that Marcus felt hunted, that he was chasing something dangerous, that he’d asked me to look out for her — but something in her expression stopped me. She looked fragile, like the slightest gust of truth might crack her open.

Instead, I said quietly, “If you ever need me… even if you can’t speak… I’ll listen.”

Her breath hitched. She pressed a hand to her forehead, eyes squeezed shut, as though trying to force something back into place, something slipping out of reach.

And then she walked away from me, drifting toward the staircase like a ghost moving between rooms.

I didn’t follow.

There was a heaviness in the air — the kind that makes you realise you are witnessing something irreversible. A fracture happening in real time.

I stayed only a few minutes longer, unsure whether I was helping or simply hovering at the edges of a private disaster. Before leaving, I glanced at the table one last time.

One scrap of paper had fallen to the floor, half-hidden by the leg of the chair. The tear ran jaggedly through the words, but enough remained to piece together a single disturbing line:

the scream wasn’t mine

A shiver ran through me.

I left the loft quietly, pulling the door shut behind me. The wind outside swallowed the sound.

That was the last time I saw Sophia Langford before Marcus died.

And the last time anyone heard her voice.