Death's Echo

Chapter 4: We Did This to Ourselves

Agatha's eyes remained locked on the door Rio had just slammed shut, her breath still caught in her throat. The fact that it had taken this long for Rio to break was a feat in itself. Agatha understood. Reliving these moments, standing inside the memory they had once called home, was nothing short of torture—perfectly crafted torture.

It was one thing to remember. It was another thing entirely to live it again, to feel the weight of each moment like it was happening all over. That kind of pain could break even the strongest.

"She's just scared," came a soft voice.

Agatha's head whipped around, eyes wide as they fell on Nicholas, who sat cross-legged on the floor, absentmindedly playing with his small metal soldiers. He wasn't looking at her. He hadn't even glanced in her direction. Yet, the words hung in the air like a whisper carried on the wind.

Agatha's heart stuttered, and for a moment, she wanted to convince herself that she had misheard. But the way the others were staring—eyes wide, frozen in place—told her otherwise.

Her breath unsteady, Agatha stepped forward. Her legs felt weak beneath her, her knees trembling as she lowered herself to Nicholas's level. Kneeling beside him, she reached out tentatively, her hand trembling as it passed through him, again finding nothing but air. A small part of her had hoped—hoped that maybe this time would be different, that maybe, like Rio, he could sense her. But as her hand slipped through his form like mist, the familiar ache gripped her chest.

She turned her face away, biting back the tears that threatened to spill, forcing herself to breathe. The helplessness, the desperation of it all—it was suffocating. She sat back on her heels, staring blankly at the ceiling as the weight of it all pressed down on her.

"You need to help her."

Agatha's head snapped back down, her heart leaping into her throat. Nicholas had spoken again, his voice quiet but certain. He was still focused on his soldiers, seemingly lost in his game, but there was no mistaking it—he was talking to her. Her pulse quickened, and she watched him, waiting for something, anything, that could explain this sudden shift.

"The shadows are coming," he said, his little voice carrying an eerie calm as one of his soldiers knocked another to the ground, the soft clink of metal echoing in the tense silence. "You are running out of time."

The sound of the clock chiming behind her made Agatha flinch, the loud clang reverberating through the house, punctuating Nicholas's words like a warning.

Tick.

Tock.

The ticking seemed to grow louder, more insistent, each beat like a reminder that time was slipping away.

"She's just scared," Nicholas murmured again, softer this time, his voice barely audible. His eyes remained downcast, still focused on the soldiers at his feet, but Agatha's heart pounded in her chest. She wasn't imagining it—he could see her, hear her, feel the weight of what was happening around them.

A shiver ran down Agatha's spine, the ominous ticking of the clock pulling her deeper into the trial's merciless reality. The sound seemed to seep into her bones, a constant reminder that time was slipping away faster than she could grasp.

"Okay—that was a clear warning," Jen's voice cut through the silence from behind her, her tone sharp with a growing sense of urgency.

Agatha glanced one last time at Nicholas, still seated on the floor, quietly playing with his metal soldiers. His small hands moved with innocent precision, and yet the weight of what he had said moments ago hung heavy in the room. He didn't speak again, didn't acknowledge her or the tension rippling through the air. It was like he'd returned to being part of the memory, as unreachable as ever.