Welcome Back to Free Story Friday!
Exciting news! The Echoed Mind officially launches tomorrow, February 1st! To celebrate I’m offering it at a special launch price of just 99 cents for the first 24 hours or for the first 1,000 purchases, whichever comes first!
Last week, I shared the Epilogue and Chapter 1 of this fast-moving dystopian tale. Today, I’m bringing you Chapter 2 and Chapter 3—so you can dive even deeper into the mystery, the tension, and the world of The Echoed Mind.
Let me know your thoughts in the comments! And don’t forget to grab your copy tomorrow at the launch price before it’s gone! 🚀✨
#TheEchoedMind #NewRelease #DystopianThriller #FreeStoryFriday
PROLOGUE
The city moved like clockwork. Streets teemed with people walking in perfectly coordinated streams, their steps synchronized by unseen algorithms. EchoLink, the omnipresent system that governed every aspect of life, ensured everything ran smoothly. Above the crowd, surveillance drones floated like silent sentinels, their glowing red eyes sweeping back and forth with mechanical precision.
To most, EchoLink was a marvel. In a world once fractured by chaos—by wars, economic collapse, and environmental ruin—it had brought order. Decisions were no longer burdened by doubt; the system provided answers. Lives were optimized. The chaos of the past was reduced to distant memory, whispered in nostalgia by an older generation that had lived without EchoLink’s guidance.
But order always comes at a cost.
Every step, every glance, every choice was tracked, categorized, and scored. Individuality had become a quiet rebellion, smothered under the weight of collective efficiency. To defy the system was unspoken heresy, an act that vanished people as surely as shadows in the blinding light of dawn.
The drones continued their watch, and the crowd moved on—perfect, silent, and obedient.
CHAPTER 1
Rowan Greer woke to the sound of a Carolina wren outside his window, its crisp whistle slicing through the stillness of the morning. He lay motionless, eyes half-open, listening as the bird’s call shifted into a trill that he immediately recognized. Territorial defense. Likely male, second-year. The identification came effortlessly, almost involuntarily, as if his mind had long since surrendered itself to the rhythm of categorization.
After a moment, the bird moved on, its song fading into the distance. Rowan rolled over and stared at the ceiling of his modest apartment. Above him, a patch of water damage sprawled in uneven patterns, a stain he’d meant to report to his landlord for months but never had. It didn’t matter. Nothing in this place mattered much. His world was elsewhere—inside the sleek, faintly glowing interface of his EchoLink.
The implant had integrated seamlessly into his life when he first received it as a teenager. Back then, it felt like magic. A direct connection to everything he could ever want to know. Now, it was his tether and his prison. Ornithology was his niche, his “optimized path,” as the system called it. He had excelled, of course, because the system made it nearly impossible not to. Success was less a result of passion and more the product of careful design.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, rubbing his temples. Focus, the familiar voice of the EchoLink algorithm echoed in his thoughts. You have five priority recordings to review before noon. Eastern whip-poor-will, subspecies unknown. High research value.
The reminder was unnecessary. He already knew what awaited him at the desk where his headset sat waiting. Recordings, spectrograms, annotations. Rowan’s life in neatly arranged data points. He sighed and shuffled to the small kitchen to start the coffee maker, the machine sputtering to life as he stared blankly at the counter. His gaze wandered to the corner of the room where an old sketchpad sat buried beneath unopened mail. He hadn’t touched it in years.
By the time the coffee had brewed, he heard a knock at the door. It was quick and impatient, the kind of knock that belonged to someone who didn’t care much about boundaries. Only one person Rowan knew fit that description.
“Uncle Rowan!” Lyra’s voice came through even before he opened the door. He hesitated a moment, then swung it open to find his niece standing there, arms crossed, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun. She was dressed in her usual mix of rebellion and practicality—a leather jacket over a standard-issue data analyst’s jumpsuit, with scuffed boots that had seen more action than most people in her line of work.
“What is it this time?” Rowan asked, stepping aside to let her in.
Lyra brushed past him, dropping her satchel onto the couch and crossed her arms. “My parents. They’re impossible. They called my niche a blessing. A blessing, Uncle Rowan. Like I should be grateful for being trapped analyzing data sets for the rest of my life.”
Rowan closed the door and leaned against it, watching her with the faint detachment he always carried. “A lot of people would kill for a stable niche.”
Lyra rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me the system-approved pep talk. You know this isn’t what I wanted.”
He sighed, walking to the kitchen to grab his coffee. “What did you want, Lyra? To be a rock star? A poet? The system doesn’t care about what we want. It’s about what we’re good at. And you are good at analysis, aren’t you?”
“Being good at something doesn’t mean it’s who you are,” she shot back. “Or are you going to tell me you’re thrilled about spending your life cataloging bird calls?”
Her words struck a nerve. Rowan set his coffee down, staring into the dark liquid as if it held answers. “It’s… what I do,” he said finally. “What else is there?”
Lyra’s expression softened, frustration giving way to something almost mournful. “Mom said you used to draw. She said you’d spend hours sketching birds when you were my age.”
“That was a long time ago,” Rowan said, his voice flat. “The system knows better than we do. Fighting it just makes life harder.”
She shook her head, disappointment etched into her features. “That’s what they want you to believe. That the system is perfect. But you know it isn’t. You’ve always known.”
Rowan opened his mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he sat across from her, the weight of her accusation pressing against him. Outside, the Carolina wren’s song drifted back into earshot, its melody threading through the silence.
Finally, Lyra sighed and grabbed her tablet from her bag. “I didn’t come here to argue,” she muttered. “I just needed to get out of the house.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, the room filled with the sounds of the city beyond the window. Rowan’s gaze drifted again to the sketchpad, his fingers itching with a ghost of the need he’d once felt.
“Do you ever wonder who you’d be without EchoLink?” Lyra asked suddenly, her voice low. “If we didn’t have it telling us what to care about?”
Rowan blinked, startled. “Why would I think about that?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” she pressed. “Don’t you ever feel like something’s missing?”
Before he could answer, a sharp ping echoed in his thoughts. The EchoLink’s interface unfurled in his mind, overlaying a priority task:
Species: Eastern Whip-poor-will. Potential subspecies. High research value. Immediate analysis required.
Rowan grimaced. “I need to work,” he said, standing abruptly.
Lyra didn’t move. “That’s how it gets you,” she said quietly. “It makes you think you don’t have a choice.”
Her words hung in the air long after she left, the door clicking shut behind her. Rowan sat at his desk, slipping on his headset. The whip-poor-will’s call played in his ears, its mournful notes repeating like a question he couldn’t answer.
But his mind wasn’t on the data. It was on the sketchpad in the corner, and the blank page waiting for him to decide. For the first time in years, Rowan felt the weight of choice pressing against him.
And for the first time, it felt like freedom.
CHAPTER 2
Lyra Greer marched down the sidewalk, her satchel bouncing heavily against her hip with every step. The city thrummed around her in its unyielding rhythm: machinery grinding in the distance, muffled voices rising and falling, and the occasional hiss of an airlift sliding along its track. Overhead, a dense blanket of gray clouds threatened rain that never seemed to come. It was like the whole city was suspended in a moment of indecision, mirroring the frustration simmering in Lyra’s chest.
She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, her fingers curling into fists. Visiting Uncle Rowan was supposed to offer clarity. Of all her relatives, he was the only one who didn’t bow entirely to the system—not outwardly, at least. But even he had retreated, carving out his little niche within the confines of his assigned purpose.
Her parents had lectured her again that morning. Her mother’s voice still echoed in her ears: “Lyra, do you even understand how fortunate you are? Do you know how many people would kill for your position?”
Lyra had bitten back a scream. Yes, she was good at analysis; the system had practically programmed it into her. But being good at something wasn’t the same as wanting to do it for the rest of her life. How could her parents not see that? Or worse, how could they see it and still insist she stay the course?
The towering glass-and-steel monoliths of downtown gradually gave way to narrower streets and smaller buildings. Here, the city’s polished veneer cracked. The faded signs and chipped paint of the shops hinted at lives lived on the margins. Lyra’s pace slowed as she entered the district unofficially known as the Drift—a place where the disenfranchised and disillusioned gathered. The air here felt heavier, thick with unspoken fears and unrealized dreams.
She stopped in front of a nondescript café tucked between two crumbling storefronts. The faded lettering on its window was barely legible, but a soft glow from within drew her in. Lyra hesitated, her hand hovering over the door handle. This was one of the places she’d read about in the encrypted forums—a spot where people who questioned the system sometimes gathered.
Inside, the café was dimly lit, its mismatched furniture giving it an air of quiet defiance against the city’s sterile uniformity. A few patrons sat hunched over their drinks, their voices low. Lyra ordered a tea and found a seat near the back, her eyes darting around the room. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Maybe someone who could confirm she wasn’t crazy for wanting more. Maybe just a sign that she wasn’t alone.
Her tea arrived in a chipped mug, and she wrapped her hands around it, letting its warmth calm her frayed nerves. At a nearby table, two figures sat deep in conversation. They leaned in close, their voices just low enough to blend with the café’s ambient hum. Lyra strained to catch snippets of their exchange.
“…final phase…”
“…Harlow…”
Her heart skipped. She’d seen that name before, buried deep in the forums. It was linked to whispers about the Humanoid Disconnect, a supposed fail-safe embedded in the EchoLink system. Her curiosity burned.
When the pair abruptly stood to leave, Lyra made a split-second decision and followed them out into the narrow alley behind the café. She kept her distance, staying close to the shadows.
“…we can’t do this alone,” one of them said, his voice urgent.
The other replied, her tone sharp. “If they trace us, it’s over. We need more people, but they have to be vetted. No amateurs.”
Lyra stepped forward, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “Wait. I want to help.”
The pair turned, their expressions wary. The man’s gaze narrowed. “Who are you?”
“Someone who’s tired of being told what to do,” Lyra replied firmly. “I know the system’s broken. And I’m not the only one.”
They exchanged a glance. The woman folded her arms, skeptical. “Why should we trust you?”
Lyra met her gaze unflinchingly. “Because I’ve spent my whole life analyzing patterns. And the cracks in the system? They’re not just flaws. They’re opportunities.”
The man hesitated, then nodded. “All right. Come with us. But if you’re lying…”
“I’m not,” Lyra said, stepping closer. “Just tell me what to do.”
CHAPTER 3
Rowan Greer sat at his desk, staring at the blank page in his sketchpad. His pencil hovered uncertainly, the simple act of drawing feeling both foreign and tantalizing. Years had passed since he’d created anything meaningful. His days were consumed by ornithological data analysis, his evenings by the quiet exhaustion of compliance.
With a deep breath, Rowan pressed the pencil to the page, his strokes hesitant. He began sketching the outline of a bird, its wings poised as if in flight. The lines came slowly, the form taking shape with each careful movement of his hand. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt real—a connection to something he’d almost forgotten.
The EchoLink hummed faintly in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of unfinished tasks. “Eastern whip-poor-will, subspecies analysis required,” it prompted. Rowan ignored it, focusing instead on the warbler emerging on the page. For the first time in years, the hum faded into the background.
Hours passed unnoticed. When Rowan finally looked up, the warbler stared back at him, its eyes alive with an energy he’d thought lost. He leaned back, his chest tight with an unfamiliar mix of pride and unease. What was he doing? This wasn’t his job. It wasn’t productive.
A faint ache settled in his temples as the EchoLink chimed again, louder this time. Rowan closed his eyes, trying to summon the will to return to his headset. But as his gaze fell back to the drawing, something shifted. The bird’s posture—defiant and unbound—stirred something in him.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Rowan slid the sketchpad into his bag and grabbed his jacket. The air outside was cool, carrying the faint scent of impending rain. He wandered aimlessly until he found himself in front of a small café, its dimly lit windows inviting him in.
Rowan stepped inside, the warmth of the room a stark contrast to the city’s chill. He found a seat near the back, pulling out the sketchpad and setting it on the table. Lost in thought, he barely noticed the quiet conversation at a nearby table until certain words caught his attention.
“Harlow… disconnect… fail-safe.”
Rowan’s heart raced. He glanced toward the speakers—a man and a woman deep in discussion. The man’s voice was measured, the woman’s sharp and precise. Rowan leaned in slightly, straining to hear more.
“We need someone they won’t suspect,” the woman said. Her eyes flicked up, locking onto Rowan. He froze, heat rushing to his face.
The man followed her gaze, his brow furrowing. “Do you know him?”
“No,” she said, her tone cautious. “But he’s been listening.”
Rowan stammered, “I didn’t mean to… I just… overheard.”
The man studied him for a moment. “What’s your name?”
“Rowan,” he said, his voice tight. “Rowan Greer.”
The man nodded toward the sketchpad. “That yours?”
Rowan nodded. “Yeah. I drew it earlier.”
“Ornithology niche?” the man guessed.
“Yes,” Rowan admitted, bristling at the label.
The woman snorted. “A cog in the machine.”
The man ignored her. “You’re not like the others, are you?”
Rowan hesitated. “I don’t know.”
The man slid a crumpled note across the table. Rowan unfolded it to reveal an address.
“If you want to know more, come here tomorrow night,” the man said. “It’s your choice.”
Rowan’s pulse quickened as he stared at the address. For the first time in years, he felt the faint pull of something beyond his neatly defined world. Something bigger, something unknown.