The morning sunlight crept across the living room floor, slow and hesitant, as though unsure if it still belonged in this house. Melinda Gordon sat on the edge of the couch, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She hadn't slept much—she couldn't. Not after last night. Not after Miyu's spirit appeared before her with that final plea.
"There are more children… just like me."
Those words echoed through the quiet house like a stubborn ghost. Melinda had heard countless spirits, felt their fears and regrets, but this—this was different. Miyu hadn't asked to be helped. She had asked her to save others.
A responsibility Melinda wasn't sure she was ready for.
The house felt heavier without Miyu's presence, as though the very air missed her. Melinda rose slowly, rubbing her tired eyes, and walked toward the kitchen. The stillness pressed around her, suffocating and cold. She paused, resting a hand on the counter as a quiet tremor shook her.
"Okay," she whispered to herself. "One step at a time."
Finding the truth meant starting where Miyu's story began—at the Horizon Research Facility. The place where she had been created, tortured, and eventually escaped. A place Melinda had only heard of through fragmented memories, broken explanations… and now a ghost's warning.
She grabbed her coat, keys, and a notebook. Melinda wasn't a hunter like the Winchesters, nor a psychic investigator. But she had something else—something more fragile, but infinitely powerful. She listened. To the dead, to the lost, to those who weren't allowed to speak when alive.
And she would listen for Miyu.
Even in death.
---
The remains of Horizon's building stood deep in the industrial outskirts of the state—a forgotten patch of land where rails curved toward abandoned warehouses, and the wind carried the scent of rust and burnt metal. The building had collapsed years ago during what government documents labeled a "chemical accident."
But Melinda knew better. Miyu had told her enough to know that Horizon had burned its secrets to ash the day the experiment went wrong.
Melinda parked the car and stepped out cautiously. The world here felt wrong—thick with silence, as though the air remembered screams that had never truly faded.
She walked slowly across the cracked pavement, crunching debris beneath her shoes. The building's skeleton rose ahead, bent and charred. Shadows clung to the wreckage, stretching like grasping hands.
"I'm here," she whispered softly. "If any of you can hear me… I'm trying to help."
A cold wind brushed past her cheek. Not a response—but enough to make her heart beat faster.
She stepped inside.
The interior was dark, lit only by narrow beams of sunlight piercing through the ruined roof. Melinda's breath fogged slightly in the cold air.
Every step felt like trespassing into a graveyard.
Every creak of metal sounded like a warning.
She paused in the center of the largest room—a place that might once have been the testing hall. Now it was nothing but scorched walls and broken tables.
That was when she felt it.
A ripple.
Not of temperature, but of emotion—fear, thick and suffocating. Like a memory still clinging to the air.
Melinda froze, eyes widening. Ghosts could linger after death, but emotional imprints—echoes—were something even spirits feared. They were the shadows of moments too painful to fade.
The air wavered around her, dimming.
Then—
A faint vision flickered like an old film reel:
children screaming, tiny hands gripping metal bars, needles glinting under harsh lights.
The echo was brief—only seconds—but enough to make Melinda stumble back, knees weak.
This place wasn't empty.
It was haunted by pain.
She exhaled shakily. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry you went through that."
The vision faded, leaving only silence.
Then, a soft shimmer lit the corner of her eye.
Melinda turned—and her breath caught.
Miyu.
Her spirit stood near a collapsed wall, translucent, her form flickering like a candle in the wind. She looked smaller than Melinda remembered… tired, dimming.
"Miyu…" Melinda whispered, stepping forward.
The spirit lifted her head weakly. "You came."
"Of course I came," Melinda breathed, her heart aching. "You asked me to find them."
Miyu nodded slightly. "There's… something here. A memory. A clue."
She drifted toward the far corner of the facility—toward a wall half-buried beneath fallen beams. Melinda followed, lifting debris as carefully as she could. Dust filled the air, but she shoved aside one charred board after another.
Behind them was a rusted metal panel.
A door.
Horizontal, low to the floor. A hidden storage compartment or emergency lockbox.
Melinda pulled it open.
Inside was a single sealed folder, miraculously untouched by the fire. Its edges were crisp, the logo on the front faded but still visible.
Horizon's emblem.
She slipped the folder out and brushed dust from the front.
Four words stared back at her:
"PROJECT ECHO — PHASE TWO."
Melinda's breath hitched. "Phase… two?"
Miyu's spirit dimmed further, her voice soft and strained. "They moved us. All of us. Before the fire…"
"All of you?" Melinda whispered, horrified. "You mean the other children—?"
"They never stopped," Miyu murmured. Her form flickered. "Melinda… you have to find them. Before Horizon does."
Melinda clutched the folder to her chest. "I will. I promise."
Miyu smiled—small, sad, but grateful.
"I can't stay long," she whispered. "Every moment here… I fade a little more."
Melinda reached out, her hand passing through soft light. "I'll be fast. I won't let them suffer."
Miyu's outline shimmered, beginning to break apart into thin threads of silver.
"Thank you… for giving me a voice," she whispered.
Then she vanished slowly, the light drifting into the ruins like dust.
Melinda knelt there alone, clutching the folder of secrets, her heart thundering.
Miyu was gone.
But her plea was not.
And Melinda would not fail her.
Not again.
Not ever.
The world thought the experiments had ended.
The world thought Horizon was gone.
But Miyu's whispers told the truth:
It was only the beginning.