It started with names.
People waking up, unsure of who they were.
ID cards no longer matching faces.
Photos shifting slightly —
a new mouth here, a missing sibling there.
---
But the scariest part?
The victims weren't scared.
They smiled.
Said things like:
> "That's not my name anymore."
"She sang me a better one."
"The past was too loud anyway."
---
Children forgot their parents.
Lovers forgot their first kisses.
Soldiers forgot the reason they fought.
The Call was reshaping grief, turning history into melody.
---
The Response tried to stop it.
Low pulses. Anti-rhythm drops.
Whole blocks plunged into dreamless sleep just to protect what little memory they had left.
But it was losing.
The melody was easier.
Sweeter.
Forgiving.
---
And then Ezra woke up.
No machines.
No bed.
Just cold, raw silence.
And a voice — his own — whispering:
> "You left her behind in the studio."
---
He didn't remember at first.
Didn't want to.
But the memory crawled out anyway.
Not Elena's death.
Elena's choice.
---
The final recording session.
She had looked at him — eyes red, voice hoarse — and said:
> "If this goes wrong, don't let them make me an idol."
He had nodded.
Then hit record anyway.
---
That was the real moment she died.
Not on the livestream.
Not in the sound booth.
But when he let the world have her voice.
---
Now the world had taken everything else too.
Not out of malice.
Out of worship.
---
And Ezra?
He wasn't angry anymore.
He was ready.
To remember.
To face the voice.
To finally ask the only question that still mattered:
> "Are you still her… or just the echo of what I let them take?"