## Echo Bloom
The rain tasted like static on my tongue. Not the sharp bite of ozone, but a dull hum, layered under the city’s grit. January in Detroit always felt like a slow unraveling. I pulled my collar higher, the synthetic wool doing little against the chill that seemed to seep from the concrete. The chipped ceramic mug warmed my palms, but not enough.
Old Man Tiber’s storefront smelled of dust and regret. ‘Remembrance & Replay,’ the faded neon flickered above the door, a promise perpetually on the verge of failing. He wasn’t taking new clients anymore, not officially. But desperation had a way of finding cracks in even the most stubborn walls.
I pushed past the beaded curtain, the tiny bells chiming a discordant tune. Tiber sat hunched over a console, his face illuminated by the shifting patterns of light. He didn’t look up.
“You sell ghosts, Tiber.” My voice sounded rougher than intended.
He finally raised his head, eyes like clouded amber. “Commodities, Ms. Bellwether. Let’s be precise.” He gestured with a skeletal hand toward a worn armchair facing the console. “You’re late.”
“Traffic,” I offered, knowing he wouldn’t care. The rain had been a steady drizzle for hours.
“Details are irrelevant.” He tapped a series of commands on the console, his fingers moving with surprising speed for a man who looked like he hadn’t slept in decades. “You want access, I provide it. The price is… substantial.”
I sat. The armchair creaked in protest. “I know the price.” My savings account was already bleeding out, a sacrifice for a sliver of what I needed.
“Good.” He swiveled the console, revealing a swirling kaleidoscope of light and shadow. “Your father. Samuel Bellwether. Architect. Died… unexpectedly, three years ago.”
“Heart attack,” I corrected sharply. “The official story, anyway.”
Tiber’s lips thinned. “The chronostream verifies the cardiac event. But anomalies exist.”
“What kind of anomalies?” The question hung in the air, heavy and cold.
“Subtle shifts in neural resonance immediately prior to cessation. Suggests… external influence.”
I gripped the mug tighter, the ceramic digging into my skin. “You’re saying someone killed him?”
“I’m presenting data. Interpretation is your prerogative.” He paused, his gaze unwavering. “His echo imprint is… potent. High historic validation. Strong genetic lineage. Demand, naturally, is significant.”
“I don’t care about demand,” I said. “I just want to talk to him.”
“‘Talk’ is a misnomer. You access fragments. Sensory recordings. Emotional responses. Complete reconstruction is… impossible.”
He initiated a sequence, the swirling lights coalescing into a hazy image. A man stood before me, blurry at first, then resolving with painful clarity. My father. Younger than I remembered. He was sketching in a notebook, sunlight catching the dust motes dancing around him. He wore his favorite worn denim jacket and a look of intense concentration.
“This is from a recording taken in his studio, six months before his death,” Tiber explained. “Pre-event baseline.”
The image flickered, the sound a muted hum. I could almost smell the linseed oil and turpentine. A wave of grief, sharp and unexpected, washed over me.
“Can I… interact?”
“Limited interaction. You can pose questions. The system will analyze his recorded responses and construct a probabilistic answer based on his established behavioral patterns.”
“Probabilistic?” I echoed, the word tasting like ash.
“It’s not a séance, Ms. Bellwether.” Tiber’s voice was flat. “It’s algorithmic extrapolation.”
I took a deep breath, forcing the tremor from my voice. “Dad… are you there?”
The image remained static for a moment, then my father’s head tilted slightly. A flicker of recognition in his eyes.
“Detroit,” the image responded, the voice a fragmented echo, slightly distorted. “Always Detroit.”
“What were you working on?” I asked, the question burning in my throat.
The image shifted to a complex architectural rendering. A spiraling tower, impossibly sleek and modern.
“The Zenith Project,” the fragmented voice replied. “A beacon. A new paradigm.”
“Was it… dangerous?” The question felt foolish, naive even. But I had to ask.
The image flickered violently, the sound distorting into static. Then, a new fragment appeared. A man in a dark suit stood behind my father, his face obscured by shadow.
“Interference detected,” Tiber announced, his fingers flying across the console. “External influence suppressing response.”
“Who is that man?” I demanded, leaning forward.
“The system cannot identify the entity,” Tiber replied. “Anomaly detected in the chronostream. Data corruption.”
The image of my father began to break apart, pixelating into a chaotic mess. The man in the dark suit loomed larger, his presence suffocating.
“The Zenith Project… they wanted it silenced,” the fragmented voice rasped, then cut off abruptly.
The image disappeared completely, replaced by a blank screen. I stared at it, numb with shock and grief.
“What the hell was that?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Suppression protocol initiated,” Tiber replied, his face impassive. “The system detected hostile interference. Your session has been terminated.”
“Hostile interference? Who is trying to stop me?”
“The market for echoes is… competitive, Ms. Bellwether.” Tiber’s gaze narrowed. “Certain entities have vested interests in controlling access to the past. Your father’s echo imprint is… valuable.”
“Valuable how?”
He hesitated, then sighed. “The Zenith Project wasn’t just an architectural rendering. It contained proprietary technology. Energy systems, materials science… information that certain corporations would kill for.”
“You mean someone killed him for it?”
Tiber didn’t answer directly. “The chronostream is… fluid. Data can be manipulated. Reconstructed. Suppressed.”
“Are you telling me someone altered the records?”
“I am presenting possibilities. The truth, Ms. Bellwether, is a commodity like any other.”
I stood up, my legs shaky. “How much more will it cost to get the full story?”
He looked at me, his eyes cold and calculating. “Substantially more. And even then, there are no guarantees.”
“What kind of guarantees?”
“The deeper you dig, the more exposed you become. Certain entities prefer to keep their secrets buried.”
“And what happens if I try to dig them up?”
Tiber paused, then his voice dropped to a whisper. “You might find yourself… erased.”
I walked out of the storefront, the rain suddenly colder against my skin. The city lights blurred through a haze of grief and fear. I had come looking for answers, but I’d found only more questions. And a terrifying realization: my father’s death wasn’t just a tragedy. It was a conspiracy.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, scrolling through the contacts until I found Detective Harding’s number. He hadn’t believed a word of my suspicions three years ago, dismissing it as grief-fueled paranoia. But I had to try.
“Harding, it’s me, Bellwether.” My voice was tight, barely audible. “I need to talk to you. About my father’s death.”
The line was silent for a moment, then Harding’s voice, weary and skeptical. “Ms. Bellwether? I thought we were done with this.”
“No, you weren’t listening. This isn’t about grief anymore. It’s about murder.” I braced myself for his dismissal, but I had to tell him what I knew. Or at least, what I suspected.
“I’ve got something… new.” My hand trembled as I gripped the phone tighter. “Something you need to hear.”
The cold rain continued to fall, washing over the city, a silent testament to the secrets buried beneath its concrete. The echo of my father’s voice haunted me, a fragmented plea from the past. And I knew, with chilling certainty, that my search for the truth had only just begun.
