Her voice in my bones

It was the janitor.

The one who never spoke.

The one everyone ignored.

The one who always kept his head down and his steps quiet.

He caught me by the stairwell during my shift to art therapy.

No clipboard.

No uniform smile.

Just a folded note.

---

> "I saw the file too," he whispered.

"I've seen a lot of them."

I didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

Because the way he looked at me —

like he was carrying thirty years of stories he'd never been allowed to tell —

was already louder than anything I could say.

---

> "They do it when someone doesn't play along," he added.

"It starts small — changing words, bending facts.

But if you keep pushing…"

He hesitated.

Then looked me straight in the eyes.

> "They'll erase you. And say you did it to yourself."

---

That silence between us?

It was the kind of silence people get fired for.

The kind of truth you only say when you've lost faith in justice

but still have a little left in people.

---

> "Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

He didn't smile.

He ached.

> "Because I watched too many girls like you leave in silence.

And I promised myself if I ever saw another one rise,

I'd say something before they crushed her."

---

He stepped back. Looked around. Then added:

> "You're close to something. I don't know what.

But close enough that they've started rewriting your ending."

He handed me the note.

Didn't wait for a reply.

---

I opened it later, in the locked stall of the bathroom.

One sentence:

> "They erased a girl named Celia Winters in 2016. Find her file. Start there."

---

Celia Winters.

I didn't know her.

But somehow, I did.

Because every system like this has a ghost.

And I just got handed mine.