The Forgotten Echo

Chapter 7 – False Memories

I didn’t go upstairs immediately.

Instead, I stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs, holding my breath, straining to listen.

The footsteps continued—slow, deliberate—like whoever it was knew I was listening, and was deliberately trying to terrify me.

I reached for the old desk lamp nearby—the only weapon I had—and carefully crept upward.

The house was deathly silent. Yet the hallway on the second floor was wide open, a cold wind gusting through the window. I was certain I had shut it the night before.

In the middle of the hallway lay a new painting. Different from the others — this time, it was me being killed. My eyes wide open, blood streaming down my forehead, and her hands around my neck, squeezing like a lover full of hatred.

I turned away, heart pounding—and then nearly jumped out of my skin.

She was standing at the far end of the hallway.

Not in a painting. Not a shadow. She was real.

Moonlight poured through the window, casting a pale glow over her face. Her tangled hair obscured her eyes. She just stood there—silent, motionless.

I blurted out,

“I... I’m sorry.”

I don’t know why those words escaped my lips.

When I blinked, she vanished.

I rushed forward—there was no one there.

Only an old diary lay on the floor. Its leather cover embroidered with a name: EVA.

I carried it downstairs, opened it, and began to read. The handwriting was soft and neat, each line soaked in sorrow.

“He doesn’t remember every time he kills me. But I remember it all.”

“I started leaving traces—paintings, videos, sounds—in the hope that he might wake up.”

“Or that I might escape.”

I read every word, my chest tightening with a cold ache.

Did I really kill her?

Or was this all some cruel trick my mind was playing on me?