“There it is again,” Sarah whispers to herself, staring at the recycling bin through her apartment window. The dry plastic container stands motionless in the alley, yet she swears she can hear it speaking. Whispering. Calling.
Three nights now. Or has it been four? The days blend together like watercolors in the rain. Time feels fluid, unreliable. She hasn’t slept properly since the voices started.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she mutters, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. “It’s just a bin. Just an ordinary recycling bin.”
But is it? The morning light catches its faded blue surface, and for a moment, Sarah sees faces swimming in the scratched plastic - or perhaps they’re just reflections of clouds passing overhead. Her mind wanders to last Tuesday… or was it Wednesday? When she first noticed something wasn’t quite right.
“Sarah…” The voice is barely audible, like dead leaves scraping against concrete. “Sarah… come see what we’ve collected.”
Her hands tremble as she lights another cigarette. The psychologist had warned her about stress-induced hallucinations, but this feels different. More real. More urgent.
“Dr. Martinez said this would happen,” she speaks to her empty living room. “Grief manifests in strange ways.”
The phone rings, making her jump. It’s her sister, Claire.
“How are you holding up?” Claire’s voice is thick with concern.
“I’m fine,” Sarah lies, watching the bin through narrowed eyes. “Just tired.”
“Maybe you should come stay with us for a while. Since Tom’s accident-”
“I said I’m fine!” The words come out sharper than intended. In the alley below, the bin seems to shudder slightly, though there’s no wind.
“Sarah… join us…” The whisper is louder now, more insistent.
“Did you hear that?” Sarah clutches the phone tighter.
“Hear what?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I’ll call you back.”
She hangs up before Claire can protest. The recycling bin sits innocently below, its lid slightly ajar. Was it open before? Sarah can’t remember. Her thoughts scatter like startled birds.
Tom would know what to do. Tom always knew. But Tom’s gone now, his car wrapped around a tree on that rainy night three months ago. Or was it four?
“We have something of his…” the bin whispers. “Something you lost…”
Sarah’s feet carry her downstairs before she can stop herself. The evening air is thick, suffocating. The bin’s shadow stretches toward her like reaching fingers.
“This isn’t real,” she tells herself, but her hand reaches for the lid anyway. “This can’t be real.”
Inside, among the dried newspapers and empty bottles, something glints. Something familiar. Something that looks exactly like…
A car horn blares nearby, making her jump. When she looks back, the bin is just a bin - silent, ordinary, dry as bone.
But she knows she’ll be back tomorrow night. Or perhaps she never left. Perhaps she’s still there, still reaching, still listening to whispers that may or may not exist.
In her apartment above, the phone starts ringing again.