Witnessing Echoes Of The Departed

20250904

Written for the "Kev's Odyssey" series.

It wasn’t necromancy. Honest. Ellen preferred to call it ‘a knack’. An ear for the whispers the departed left behind, fragments of presence lingering on their cherished possessions like their fading scent.
She turned the music-box key over in her fingers. The etherial notes tickling at her mind were much brighter than what the box actually produced. A memory of when the box was new?
Based on the engraved plaque underneath, this looked to be a courting gift. A sweet bauble he picked out in the first flush of youth turning into a memento he clung to after she was gone.
Ellen probed deeper. Curious. Why did the memory linger so?
“She always played it when she was upset.” The remnant murmured. “It comforted her. And told me something was wrong. Even after sickness ravaged her mind and took her voice, this box was her companion and cry for help.”
Aw. Ellen smiled approval and gently returned the key to its hole. She would find it a place on the shelves later.
What other treasures had this haul netted? She let her hand play across the old, worn curios laid out on the velvet sheet. All had remnants; she only bought items which reacted to her touch as she browsed. But a flea market wasn’t a good place to try and study such wispy sticky traces.
A quiet room. A stick of soothing incense. An ergonomic, eye-friendly adjustable lamp. With the right tools and a poised mind the whispers became clear.
Because often, what people truly left behind was the aching wish to be witnessed.
Ah. This letter opener. A true antique. Once beautiful, now the gilt on its handle was worn through to copper and the steel blade marred by a wavy warped section.
She tilted it back and forth, inspecting the damage. Badly bent and then straightened? She probed.
Yes. There was distant, eroded anger soaked into the damage. Painted over with remorse. Then finally layers of fondness and acceptance.
“They didn’t know.” A woman’s voice this time, forbearing and matter-of-fact. “They were too young to understand. I’m sure granddad would’ve forgiven them too. And it still works just fine, now we got it fixed.”
Hm. Had it been (mis)used as a lever? A play-pretend weapon? Ellen spent a while trying to tease out details, but the memory of that incident was too far past. Every time the mother had glanced at the fix and thought fondly of her children added up to an emotional layer of plaster. Trying to see the wood grain underneath would require more dedicated study.
So that piece was set aside, in the ‘further inspection’ tray.
Now… she felt ready to tackle the wedding ring.
Which was a very normal thing to carry remnants. For many people their wedding band was a key emotional nexus. But this remnant was… grim.
The effect was hard to describe. Like the difference between a sip of lemonade and biting into lemon pith. Like your finger brushing brambles rather than grass. Like a growl instead of a purr. It wrapped the unassuming gold band in muttering prickles.
But just like the other remnants - perhaps even more so - those mutters cried out to be heard. To be witnessed. She considered it her responsibility.
At the first proper touch, her thumb and forefinger wrapping around the outside, the etherial chill came into sharp focus. Thank goodness she knew better than to try putting such a remnant on. For an item, its proper use was a more intimate contact. Better to maintain distance for now.
Glee. That was the first note. A bitter glee born of grief smothered so hard, hidden so deep, that it could only be approached askew. “Dead at last, dead at last, thank God he’s dead at last…”
Ah. Ellen bit her lip and steeled herself.
Drifting just under the glee was relief. “If I wear this, if I act the proper widow forever, I will finally be free. No more fending off advances, no more nagging from my parents… I did my duty for them, and suffered it long enough!”
Probing deeper… past the layers painted in garish grim joy, into the dull strata of resentment and resignation… She lent an ear to words unspoken. Cries smothered. Pleas half-formed and buried in shallow graves for fear of consequences.
Through it all ran a burning emotional thread. An aching, keening cry. Too tired for a scream. Too despairing to be a call for help. A wordless wail of “Why does nobody listen? Why does nobody CARE?”
Ellen lifted the ring to her lips, letting her tears wash the sorrowful metal. A comforting kiss.
“They should have cared.” She whispered. “They should have listened to you. You’re right, it wasn’t fair.”
The remnant quivered against her skin. Slowly melting. Finally heard.
How long had it been carried, wrapped around a finger? An unseen burden. A manacle forged into a shield. Held between a broken heart and a world which demanded polite silence.
She set the ring aside and blew her nose. The remnant wasn’t freed yet, traces still lingering, but… she’d witnessed all she could for now. This one might require formal cleansing before it found peace. She wrapped it in a square of black silk and put it in the drawer.
Then she picked up her paperweight. An unassuming smooth rock to most eyes. But it had been on this desk for generations. Her father’s jolly, loving presence enfolded her. Right behind him was Grandma - calm, brisk, and reassuringly purposeful. If Ellen probed deeper… blocked out everything else… she could feel the endless well of empathy and curiosity which had been Great-Granddad.
She’d never met him. But he’d left so many whispers that she knew him well.
She slowly rocked back and forth, absently humming the music-box tune. Letting her heart calm and her emotions settle.
Then she wiped her eyes and turned back to the tray of curios. To the echoes waiting for witness.

Prompt was “Echo”.