The Voice

The fountain had been dry for twenty years.
Everyone in the town knew the story.
Once, water had flowed from it so clear that people claimed they could see their reflections even at night.
Then, one winter morning, the fountain simply stopped.
Nobody knew why.
Mira had passed it a hundreds of times.
She had never heard anything from it until that day.
She was walking home when she heard someone whisper her name.
"Mira."
She stopped.
The street was empty.
"Mira."
This time, the voice came from behind her.
She was startled.
She turned.
Nothing.
Then she realised where it was coming from.
The fountain.
She stepped closer.
A faint blue light was glowing at the bottom.
"Mira..."
Her heart began beating faster.
The voice changed.
It became softer.
Older.
Familiar.
"Sweetheart?"
Mira froze.
Her mother had called her that.
Every night when she was little.
Before she died.
Mira took one step toward the fountain.
Then another.
She knew what the letter had said.
Don't answer it.
The voice whispered again.
"Mira, please."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Mom?"
The moment she spoke, the fountain cracked.
A blue flame erupted from its centre.
And something beneath the stone whispered:
"Too late."