You found the necklace in the attic, buried under a pile of old clothes that reeked of mildew and dust. The chain was tarnished, the pendant dark with age, and something about it felt off. It had belonged to your grandmother, passed down through generations, or so your mother had told you once, though she’d never been clear on its origin. It was heavier than expected, cool to the touch even in the stifling attic air. Despite the strange feeling it gave you, it was hard to resist keeping it. There was a draw to it, an odd comfort that settled in once you clasped it around your neck.

You wear it now, the metal faintly pressing against your chest, almost like a pulse. You can feel its weight every now and then, an occasional prickling at the back of your mind. But life goes on. You barely notice the subtle change at first—a strange shadow here, an unexpected flicker of light there. Maybe a door slams when there’s no draft, or you misplace an object, only to find it right where you left it moments later.

When the first whisper happens, it’s faint. You’re not even sure you heard it, maybe just a stray thought, or the creak of the floor settling. But it happens again, like a low murmur right in the edge of your hearing. A soft voice, hardly more than a breath. It doesn’t say much, just your name, almost like a suggestion. Each time, you try to dismiss it, chalk it up to stress, lack of sleep, maybe even your imagination. But it doesn’t stop.

Weeks pass, and you start noticing it more—the voice, creeping up in the quiet moments, like when you’re alone in a room or about to drift off to sleep. It never speaks in full sentences, just fragmented phrases, a few words at a time. It’s almost polite, like it’s waiting for you to notice it fully, to acknowledge it.