I used to believe grief was private.
A locked room, four walls, no windows.
But now… it's public.
Viral.
By morning, the TikTok that featured Elena's song had crossed 2.3 million views.
Strangers were commenting things like:
> "I've never felt so seen by a dead woman's voice."
"Whoever Ezra is… man, say something."
"This isn't just AI. This is real. I don't care what anyone says."
And then came the theories.
> "This is a marketing campaign."
"Some indie artist faking ghost vocals."
"The name Ezra was probably made up."
It was surreal — watching people pick apart the most intimate pieces of my life like they were clues in a puzzle box.
And yet… I kept scrolling.
Why?
Because one comment hit harder than the rest:
> "She sounds like someone who died waiting for an apology."
---
I closed the app.
The laptop sat open on the kitchen counter like a mouth mid-confession.
I hadn't eaten. My coffee was still cold. My life was unraveling in slow motion and somehow I couldn't look away.
Then I remembered the note from the studio:
> "Tomorrow, listen for the song without a voice. You'll know it by heart."
That had to be today's clue.
So I opened my inbox again.
There it was.
Subject: Day 3: The Empty Track
Attachment: Track3.wav
No message. Just the file.
I pressed play.
---
It was five minutes of silence.
No instruments. No breath.
Just a subtle ticking underneath — like an old analog metronome buried in a basement.
Tick… tick… tick…
But I recognized the rhythm.
It was the tempo of a demo we once started but never finished.
A song we called "She Used to Breathe Like This."
Back then, Elena said the tempo felt like the rhythm of a woman trying to hide heartbreak. "It's not fast enough to move on," she told me. "But not slow enough to forget."
I had laughed. I always laughed when things got too serious.
Now I just sat there, haunted.
---
I plugged in my headphones, closed my eyes, and let the silence carry me back.
I saw her sitting on the floor of our old living room, guitar in her lap, hoodie pulled over her knees.
She was writing lyrics on napkins and receipts — the only paper we had left that week.
> "You always run from my quietest songs," she said.
> "Because I can't handle what they say," I replied.
And now, seven years later, I was chasing those same songs like they were medicine. Or punishment. Or both.
---
Halfway through the silent track, a single sound emerged.
A breath.
Soft. Tired. Caught between a sigh and a whisper.
Then a voice — Elena's — cracked and raw:
> "You'll find the next clue where I almost left you the first time."
Then silence again.
---
My chest sank.
I knew exactly where that was.
---
Seven years ago, we nearly broke for good in a motel room off Highway 11.
We had driven out of the city after a brutal argument about her quitting music.
She said I was too obsessed with perfecting what we already had.
I said she was too quick to let things go.
The fight ended with her locking herself in the bathroom, and me falling asleep on the floor outside the door with her guitar case in my lap.
The next morning, she came out, sat beside me, and said, "Don't let me disappear like this. Please."
She never brought it up again. Neither did I.
Until now.
---
I closed the laptop.
This story wasn't just for me anymore.
It belonged to 2.3 million strangers.
It belonged to Elena.
It belonged to the version of me that still had something left to say.
And if I wanted to finish it…
I had to go back to that motel.