The Hollowing Echos

The machine whirred faintly, as it had for decades. Its purpose was no longer questioned but accepted as reality. The sound of the soft beeping which used to make her feel emotions of contentment, now barely affected her character.

“Next, Number 54 please step forward,” said the technician muttering with his dull, tired eyes as he glared at her. The machine whispered a buzzing sound as if it had been waiting just for her.

Like every day, her feet brought her close to the machine. She didn’t question it, she never did.

The machine wires gently touched her head and swiftly, another thought slipped away. Something felt missing, something significant, but the details if they’d ever been there were already fading as she thought about it. Yet she didn’t utter a word of her concern to anybody.

She strolled down the vacant streets, as though she was the only one left there. No children were playing in the parks filled with empty swings and pits of sand. As she trolled through the crisp, smooth freshly painted pavement, with no cracks in sight, she noticed a small gathering of people.

Everyone was draped in pitch black, as the fabric absorbed all emotions. The crowd’s faces were pale and blank, sharp and cold like ice, focused. A familiar sense clutched her, but the crowd remained still. A void of hollow stares filled the scene, no one moved or spoke.

The casket lowered into the deep soil of the earth, and people with shovels dug the hole deeper. It was hushed, no whispers surrounded the crisp atmosphere of the rainy hollow season.

No sobs or cries filled the air, no one knew who was in the deep soil, not even her. People still gathered at the park as a societal obligation and out of respect for the person, but not out of love. That was how funerals were in this town, without remembrance.

“DING DING DONG” Clock chimed, as the wooden stick hammered against the bell resulting in an echo. The crowd began to move without a word, brushing against each other without caring. They moved as if it was rehearsed, like a well-practiced routine. She felt her feet gliding before her, drawing herself into the line. This time her name tag was different, this time it was “Number 23.”

Standing before the machine, her body felt like a stiff pole, all the weight concentrated on her frail bony feet. Chills wandered throughout her body as she stood frozen.

“I don’t have all day,” the technician called. “Get in quickly.” She turned around. She knew something was wrong and missing. She ripped the flimsy sharp plastic name tag off her neck and it dropped to the floor shattering in pieces. Pieces of her name were scattered around the machine.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going without a word?” the technician shouted. He was already annoyed as it was, and his job was to check people into the machine. He didn’t have time for any mishaps. She stared at him while sweat pooled on the pores of her face, quietly but quickly she stepped out.

The pace of her walk increased as she turned the corner onto the quiet street, confused about what was happening but something didn’t sit right. The damp pavement stretched out before her, and the sound of her feet was almost invisible. She hadn’t realized how open the street was until now.

Suddenly she stopped, and her head started to bulge, as if a large hammer banged on her head. The noise wouldn’t stop, instead, it kept getting louder. Sighing with an unrelaxed breath, a blurry fragment of light flashed in her mind.

It was a man, who stood with his face behind a glowing light and an aura that shined. In an instant, he vanished, but it wasn’t someone she didn’t know, it reminded her of someone in her past, but she couldn’t put a name to who it was.

Her heart shifted “Was it someone important?” she thought. That would be impossible, the machine would never let her forget anything precious.

She pushed the door open, its familiar creak echoing inside her mind. The house sagged in the left corner of the street, alone. Dust floated in the silence, and the floorboards groaned. Shadows spread across, waiting.

She turned around, finding the stairs almost hidden in shadows under flickering lights. She leaned in and lifted her feet, each step creaking louder than the last. The air grew colder, and the hallway narrowed. The attic lay in a black, almost unseen room at the end of the hallway.

The attic door waited, patiently for her arrival standing there frozen with curiosity. The black almost unseen room became more recognizable as she went on, carefully stepping on the floorboards that groaned beneath her feet.

Although the attic was a place she had visited many times before, she couldn’t grasp the last time she had been so attached to it. Something attracted her to the crisp golden handle covered in dust, awaiting her arrival.

Her hand pressed against the doorknob, wrapping it around her fingers slick with sweat.

Her fingers slick with sweat gripped the doorknob, turning it carefully, but it remained sealed, refusing to open with even the slightest pressure. It was as if something forgotten was kept safe inside.

She slammed her body against the door repeatedly, but still, it wouldn’t budge. Her shoulder was aching with redness on her arms white as snow, and as fragile as a piece of paper.

She slipped on the uneven floorboards and groaned, tripping over a lump and landing hard on her knee. A bold pain gushed through her leg. As she looked down, her leg was dripping, dripping with wet liquid. “Blood? Where had it come from?” she gasped, draping her foot with a shawl, confused looking at the fresh scrape on her dripping knee.

She sat upright, shrinking away from the pain. Not much could be seen in the dark, as her fingers brushed against the rough lump she had tripped over. The lump was dusty brown, she slowly picked it up trembling, with bloodied fingers. Her fingers stroked the worn-out leather cover, fairly ripped along the edges and now with blood stains all around.

It was as if the book had been opened and closed relentlessly. A shiver of curiosity about how long the book had been hidden ran down her spine as she slowly turned to the first page. The words were handwritten with the finest ink and smudges as if the writer had poured their heart into every word.

“Dearest, Anne, oh how I miss you dearly...”

“The first time I saw your beautiful eyes as deep as the waters of the sea, with the sun-setting in the pinkish, blue skies, the way your golden brown eyes reflected the light from the orange sun fading with color, words cannot describe the beauty I witnessed..”

“The way you faintly smiled, I knew if even all went wrong, I would have you as the source of my happiness.”

“If ever one day, we separate, at least I would not forget you..”

“I hope I remember you, for the rest of my life.”

She read further, her heart quickening. Droplets of tears filled her eyes, blinking, a tear smeared down her face. She couldn’t believe it, ever since the machine had existed, she had never felt this way. “Oh, tears...why?” “Nothing about this is sad it’s just a diary entry!” “It’s rubbish..?” she quietly cried. Pages were filled with heartfelt letters and memories of friends and family. The more she read the more she realized this was life before everything changed, it wasn’t just rubbish or a simple diary entry. It was heartfelt letters, memories of people and their lives before the calamity. People had feelings, and they expressed them. “It all makes sense now, the tears, the diary, the man with the sudden aura. These are all signs that things have to change, that the world can’t go on anymore with this old-fashioned weak mindset.”

She quickly skimmed and flipped through the diary, as loose pages fell to her feet. The rest of the pages were blank

As if the author couldn’t finish their thoughts.

Closing the diary, close to her chest, something hid deep inside of her, awakened. This was a glimpse into a time when even painful memories were treasured. A life where imperfection swayed like leaves scattered across a dusty, rough-concrete path, where harmony threaded and stitched itself through friends and families as the first dim light of dawn brightened the crisp, autumn, silent morning.

“This wasn’t how it's supposed to be,” she pondered. “I only thought of the idea of the machine, so the painful fragments of the past could be hidden and locked away for good, because of me.., because of my own selfish need to avoid the horror of it all, I forgot just about how much the light glows when looking back on everything, the hard times...they’re the light in our shadowed, isolated world. They shape us in ways we can’t imagine, into versions of ourselves we’d never dreamed were possible.”

She pushed herself to her feet, clutching the diary tightly. The attic and the blood on her skin faded as a new purpose enlightened her. She strutted to the door slowly but swiftly. It was time to make things right.

The days following the discovery of the diary became a blur. The memories rested within her, confusion kept her up at night. Everyone she went to said the same thing, “Why does it matter? We have everything we need now.” they said.

She knew it wasn’t true, the more she read the diary the deep void that hollowed them their entire lives, opened. It was more than just memories that had been erased, it was society as a whole.

She tried to persuade and warn them to listen to her, but they all looked at her with distant, empty eyes. They saw her desperation as strange, uncanny, and dangerous even because no one cared for the past. They only cared about the existence of the machine provided.

Her mind unwinded faster and faster, and the diary's content became a lost memory in a haze. Her mind became dizzy filled with thoughts spinning around in a carousel.

Grabbing a pen, she scribbled a note on a tiny piece of paper, hoping to lock the truth in place. As the minutes ticked by, the words became foreign and scrambled like a pile of puzzle pieces waiting to be pieced together.

The clock signaled, her ears rang, and she was at the station standing in front of the whirring machine. Her hands were shaky, and her legs were wobbly.

Above the large, metallic machine was a worn-out metal plate engraved with words that seemed almost symbolic, as if carrying a hidden message underneath the ductile metal. The machine was built decades ago, however, this entity was still faintly present, almost fading. It read “A free ticket for a life free of sorrows, for tranquility and ease.” She rubbed her eyes, “Was this really true?”

The words echoed in her mind, not seeming to get quieter, but repeating at louder fragments. “A life free of sorrows?” confusion ran through her mind, faster than the chills that ran across her frail thin legs. She felt cold, inside and out. It felt as if her body was a block of ice chipping away. “For tranquility” these words itched her mind, what did it mean? The machine only erased the past, not emotions. However, it did, the machine sucked out not only their past horrifying events, but their feelings, personality, connections, and joy. It erased their ability even to remember the feelings of joy, and love, and the warmth that comes from it. The remaining result was a life full of echoes, an echoing shell of lies that would never please you truly. “Who am I?” the answer slipped away, her identity vanishing.

Her head throbbed with unbearable pain, it felt as if it might explode. She screamed in agony to make it stop, but no one cared to help her. Instead, they shoved her, numbly as their hollow eyes stared at her feet. Her legs busted, spraying blood onto the pavement, and their blank faces. Taking one last step she collapsed to the ground like a deflated balloon.

Her brain finally gave out, the organs flushed out of her head and her eyes lay open as blood seeped out.

No one noticed as they stepped across her body squashing her to death, stomping over the flesh of what was left, their faces blank as they entered the whirring machine, continuing the never-ending cycle.

Fatima Nadeem is a sophomore at the American School of Dhahran as of 2025.