“Voices Beneath the Floor,” by Aahana Raval: May 2025 2nd Place

One afternoon, Theo’s fingers traced the worn edges of a loose floorboard in the school’s ancient hallway. It lifted with a soft creak, revealing a spiral staircase curling like smoke into the earth’s quiet.

He descended into warmth and hums.

Below, a factory breathed. Machines churned mismatched socks, each one humming a forgotten lullaby. Around him, glowing orbs danced and giggled—light made sound, sound made laughter.

A sock brushed his ankle.

“Welcome back,” it whispered.

“Who are you?” Theo asked, voice barely more than breath.

“The Keeper made us,” an orb chimed. “She gathers what slips through cracks—the lost, the forgotten.”

Suddenly, alarms pierced the air. Gears slowed, then faltered. The exit’s glow flickered and dimmed.

“Time is folding,” the orbs warned. “Only those who remember may leave.”

Theo’s chest tightened. He grasped a single sock, worn thin—a fragment of his mother’s voice from years ago.

Memories bloomed: nights filled with lullabies, a warm hand smoothing his hair.

He followed the orbs’ trembling light through corridors twisting with shadows and fading color.

At the door, a slit of light remained.

Theo pressed the sock against it. Warmth spilled out, the door sighed open.

He stepped into the hallway, where the floor was whole again.

No one else knew the secret beneath their feet.

But sometimes, when silence falls, Theo hears soft singing—

the lost voices waiting,

never truly gone.