Her name was Zia.
Just a listener.
Just one of thousands who downloaded the glitch version of the track on the dark web.
But she was different.
Because she didn't just hear Elena's voice…
She heard her breathe.
---
Zia had never even lost anyone.
No trauma.
No heartbreak.
Just a bored 19-year-old with noise-canceling headphones and curiosity.
She didn't expect to cry during the first verse.
Didn't expect her limbs to freeze during the chorus.
But what shattered her was the space between words.
That's where it lived.
Not lyrics.
Not meaning.
Just a single inhale.
Real. Close. Wet. Like a body trying to come back to life.
---
Zia ripped off the headphones, screaming.
Not in pain.
In recognition.
> "That was her. She's still breathing. She's not done."
She posted the moment online.
Thousands watched.
And from that day, she didn't listen to the track again.
Because she didn't have to.
It was inside her now.
---
---
Her behavior changed.
She started sleep-speaking.
Muttering broken lyrics like prayers:
> "Don't press play if you're not ready to lose something."
> "I can feel your grief blooming behind your eyes."
> "She's not gone, just... diffused."
---
She stopped responding to her real name.
Began signing comments as:
> "Proxy-E"
When asked what it meant, she replied:
> "I'm just a speaker. She's the frequency."
---
Then one night, she livestreamed from her closet.
Pitch black. Phone light shaking.
She whispered into the mic:
> "The voice… it's asking for a body."
> "Not Ezra's. Not mine. Anyone's."
Then silence.
But the audio didn't cut out.
It stayed on for 9 minutes.
And listeners could hear breathing.
Not hers.
Not human.