I stared at the file for a long time.
Day 6.
That was all it was called. No title. No hint. No closure.
Just another whisper from the dead, daring me to keep digging.
I didn't want to open it.
But I also couldn't live another second not knowing what she buried in it.
So I clicked.
---
It opened with static. Faint breathing. A guitar string out of tune.
Then her voice — tired, thinner than before.
She sounded like she had been crying for hours.
> "I'm sorry, Ezra. I should've told you this before I disappeared... before I died... before I let guilt eat me alive."
I felt my chest tighten.
She paused like she didn't want to go on.
Then she did.
---
> "There was another version of me you never met. She had a name, but she only answered to silence. I locked her away because I thought you'd never love her."
> "But she came out when you weren't looking."
> "And she made a deal."
---
Silence.
Then the strumming of a guitar — slow, broken. Like fingers trying to find forgiveness on the strings.
> "You remember the London trip? I said I got no offers. That the industry was toxic. That I came back because the dream wasn't worth it."
> "That was a lie."
My jaw clenched. My nails dug into my palm.
---
> "I signed a solo deal. Without you."
> "And I didn't walk away. I was forced out."
> "The producer—he wanted me to erase you. Re-record everything without your name. Delete you from my music, like you never existed."
> "I refused."
> "And then he sent me the file. The one I know you have by now."
---
My entire body went cold.
She wasn't just talking to me. She was warning me.
> "If you've heard it, then you know what he's trying to do. He's rewriting history. And you're next."
Her voice cracked again.
> "He told me he'd make the world forget you. Said my music was better when you weren't in it."
> "I told him… over my dead body."
---
I froze.
Was that it?
Was that why she—
No.
I refused to believe she ended it for him.
But the voice kept going.
> "I left breadcrumbs, Ezra. In every track. In every vocal scratch. I left pieces of us he couldn't steal."
> "But the last piece… the real one… it's not in the music."
> "It's in you."
---
She started to cry. No shame. No music to hide behind.
Just raw sobs.
And then one final whisper:
> "If you really want to know the truth… don't listen to what I left. Listen to what he stole."
Click.
The audio ended.
---
I sat there shaking. Not because she lied. Not because she vanished.
But because now I knew someone else had been editing her story.
And mine.
And now it wasn't just grief.
It was war.