The air tightened—not with tension, but with focus. Every drifting mote of light seemed to lean inward, listening.
When the echo's hand finally met the space before Rhys's, there was no touch in the way touch was known—no pressure, no heat—yet the moment carried weight. A resonance flowed through him, soft and vast, like standing at the edge of an endless sea and realizing it was aware of you.
A memory brushed against his thoughts. Not his own.
A figure walking alone beneath a sky that had not yet learned to change. A world young and unscarred. The ache of curiosity. The wonder of first steps.
Rhys inhaled sharply, steadying himself. "You were… one of the first," he murmured, understanding blooming without words.
The echo's glow deepened, a ripple of affirmation. Around them, the lattice of light shifted, responding not just to their presence, but to their recognition. It was not enough to exist here—you had to see what had come before.
