One by one, the echoes adjusted—some sharpening into clearer forms, others blurring further, as though uncertain whether they wished to be seen at all. A few recoiled, their edges fraying like memories worn thin by time. Others leaned forward, curiosity overcoming caution.
Rhys felt the change before he understood it. The presence pressing against his awareness was no longer singular. It was a convergence—a gathering of attention, of histories brushing against one another.
"This place…" Caria murmured, her voice hushed. "It's not just remembering them. It's remembering through us."
A ripple of agreement moved through the air.
The ground beneath their feet warmed again, and faint lines of light spread outward, threading between the spectral forms. Each thread pulsed in rhythm with a different cadence—some slow and heavy, others quick and restless. They were not paths to walk, but stories waiting to be acknowledged.
