Ezra hadn't slept in 36 hours.
The humming didn't stop anymore.
Even with noise-canceling filters, soundproofing foam, and buried headphones…
he could feel it in the bones of the building.
Not in his ears. In his chest.
---
He sat in the old sound booth.
Not to record music.
But to record grief.
---
The walls were cracked.
The mic was rusted.
But it worked.
He hit REC, leaned in close, and said nothing for a full minute.
Then he whispered:
> "I killed her."
---
His voice sounded like it came from another person.
One he'd buried long ago.
---
> "Not with my hands.
With my silence.
With my pride."
---
He talked about the studio nights.
How she'd sing in whispers after the lights were off.
How she'd hum melodies in her sleep.
How he ignored her the day she cried after writing that song — the one that made her hands shake when she played it back.
---
> "I thought I was the genius.
I thought she needed me."
---
He told the tape everything.
Even the parts he swore never to say aloud:
That he deleted one of her demos out of jealousy
That he told her "it's just noise" the night she said her music was alive
That he almost didn't show up the day she disappeared
---
His voice cracked halfway through the recording.
Then broke completely.
---
He didn't listen to it.
He uploaded the file raw to the old backup system.
The one that fed into the city's old Harmony towers.
He didn't know why.
He just wanted someone to hear it.
---
Then something strange happened.
The recording was broadcast.
Not just in the shelter.
Across four old districts.
---
But it wasn't his voice anymore.
The message was his.
The tone. The sorrow.
But the voice was hers.
Elena's.
---
And she said, in his words:
> "I killed her."
> "With my silence."
> "With my pride."
---
People across the city heard it.
Some cried.
Some screamed.
One man lit himself on fire outside the Hall of Frequencies.
They didn't understand.
But they felt it.
---
Ezra slammed his laptop shut.
He stared at the mic.
And for the first time in weeks, he whispered not into it…
…but to it.
> "You're not her."
The mic hissed.