The Echo Ledger

Chapter One - The Ledger Opens

The bus seats were still warm in Amira's memory. The smell of diesel, the rattling windows, the way the emergency exit shook whenever they went over a bump-none of it faded. Not for her. It never would. Hyperthymesia meant nothing slid into the background. Every sight, every sound, every word she'd ever heard or spoken lived in her head like it had just happened. Which meant she couldn't forget the way her best friend had screamed, or how the bus had skidded sideways on the black ice before flipping into the ditch.

The crash was eight months ago. For most people, eight months was enough time to blur the edges. For Amira, it was as sharp as glass pressed to skin.

And now the school wanted her to write it all down.

She sat in a circle of twelve plastic chairs, each occupied by a survivor of the crash. The room was a former music classroom stripped of instruments, the air sour with dust and stale carpet. In the center, sitting on a flimsy library cart, was the object everyone had come to see: the Echo Ledger.

It was huge, bound in cracked black leather, its corners reinforced with tarnished metal. The thing looked like it belonged in a cathedral, not a high school. Its weight bent the cart slightly to one side. A bookmark the color of dried blood dangled out of its middle.

Mrs. Cross, the school counselor, hovered beside it, her hands folded like she was guarding a holy relic. "This is your place," she said, scanning the circle. "Your place to remember, to confess, to release. No teachers. No parents. Just you. You write your truth here, and it stays here. That's the deal."

A ripple of uneasy laughter ran through the group.

Amira didn't laugh.

Her notebook-plain blue, college-ruled-rested in her lap. She always carried one. Writing was safer than speaking. Safer than letting her words twist in someone else's mouth. Selective mutism wasn't something people understood. They called it shyness, called it a phase. But her silence wasn't shyness; it was survival. Words got stuck in her throat like splinters. On paper, they were sharp, clear, and hers.

Now she was supposed to share them with a dozen other survivors who barely looked at her anymore.

Jace was across the circle, arms folded, hoodie zipped to his chin despite the heat. His eyes were shadows, dark crescents beneath his lashes. His sister had died in the crash. He hadn't spoken to Amira since the funeral, except once-to spit, "You were there. You remember everything. Why don't you tell the cops what really happened?"

Because the truth didn't change the fact that she'd lived and his sister hadn't.

Mrs. Cross opened the ledger carefully, like she was afraid the binding would crack. "Every week, each of you will write. Just a page. No rules except honesty. We don't edit. We don't erase. We don't hide."

She slid a fountain pen from the spine pocket and held it up. "Who wants to begin?"

No one moved.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of the flickering fluorescent lights.

Amira stared at her notebook, willing herself invisible. If they made her go first, she'd freeze. Words didn't come easy under stares.

Finally, a boy named Theo shrugged and got up. He slouched to the cart, flipped a few pages, and scribbled something without even sitting down. It was quick, careless, a signature of someone who didn't want to be remembered. He tossed the pen onto the cart and slumped back to his chair.

"Thank you, Theo," Mrs. Cross said warmly. "Anyone else?"

Slowly, one by one, the survivors came forward. Pages turned. Pens scratched. Some wrote fast, some paused and stared for long minutes before their pens moved. Jace took the pen like he was snapping its neck. He wrote with quick, hard strokes that left grooves in the paper. When he finished, he slammed the ledger shut and shoved it toward the center of the cart.

Amira's stomach churned.

"Amira?" Mrs. Cross's voice was soft, coaxing. "Would you like to write?"

Every gaze in the circle shifted to her. The air thickened.

Her fingers tightened on her own notebook. She could feel sweat sliding down her spine. She shook her head quickly, once.

"That's all right," Mrs. Cross said smoothly, though the disappointment was there in her eyes. "Next week, maybe."

The session ended soon after. Kids filed out, murmuring, muttering, eyes darting. Amira stayed behind to pack her bag slowly, waiting for the room to empty. She didn't want to brush shoulders with anyone. Not Jace. Not Theo. No one.

The ledger sat closed, the pen tucked neatly against it.

But as she slung her bag onto her shoulder, something drew her gaze back. The bookmark-the dried-blood ribbon-was sticking out a few pages earlier than before. She could have sworn it had been dead center when Mrs. Cross opened it.

Her chest tightened. She stepped closer.

The room was empty except for her. She reached for the ledger, fingers trembling. She flipped it open to the page the ribbon marked.

Her breath caught.

Her handwriting.

Slanted, sharp, distinct-she knew every curl, every flick of her pen.

The entry stretched across the page like a wound:

"I remember the sound of her skull hitting the glass. I remember not screaming because I wanted it to be over. I remember thinking I'd rather her die than me. And she did."

Below it, her name: Amira Khalid.

Her blood turned to ice.

She staggered back, nearly dropping her bag. This wasn't real. She hadn't written this. She'd never thought it. She couldn't forget thoughts-they were branded into her skull forever-and these weren't hers.

The door creaked.

She spun, heart in her throat.

Jace stood in the doorway, his hoodie still up, his eyes like knives.

He'd seen the page.

His jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and his voice was low, dangerous. "So it's true. You wished she died instead of you."

Amira's throat locked. She shook her head violently, trying to form words, any words. Nothing came.

Jace stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "You're not going to hide behind silence this time."

She wanted to scream, but silence was all she had.

He pointed at the page, his hand trembling. "You wrote it. In your perfect memory, in your perfect handwriting. Don't you dare say you didn't."

She couldn't. Her body froze, her voice strangled, her head hammering with panic.

Jace's eyes were wet, rage and grief colliding. He slammed the ledger shut so hard dust lifted into the air. Then he shoved past her, storming out, the door rattling in its frame.

Amira stood alone, the silence deafening.

She pressed her palms to her temples. No. She hadn't written it. She would know. Hyperthymesia didn't lie. Memory didn't just invent itself.

Her gaze fell back to the ledger.

It sat there on the cart, heavy and waiting. The ribbon still marked the page, like a finger pointing directly at her.

Her name was inked into it, undeniable.

And if the others saw it tomorrow, they'd believe it too.

Her breath hitched as the overhead lights flickered once, twice, and then buzzed back on.

She wasn't alone.

A sound came from the back of the room-like a chair sliding.

Amira spun, her pulse spiking.

No one was there.

She grabbed her bag and bolted, the slam of her footsteps echoing down the empty hallway.

Behind her, in the silence of the abandoned room, the ledger's pages rustled as if a phantom hand had turned them.