Some stories began in silence, in echoes that belonged to only
one voice. First we heard Ellie, the one
who stayed, who carried absence in every room.
Then we heard Matthios, the one who left, lighter, freer, but
still turning back. Now their names have been
spoken. Ellie Matthios.
Not just voices in the quiet, but people, each holding a
different side of what was lost. This part belongs to Matthios,
to the one who walked away from wait but still find absence,
waiting in the corners of his freedom.
The Echo Between Worlds isn't only about endings.
It's about what remains after, and how even freedom carries a
shadow. This is Echo Between Worlds Part
6. What the Walls remembered 5
echoes. One church that has stood
through centuries. One man who is learning that
moving forward doesn't mean forgetting.
I stopped beneath the towers. They looked heavier than they
felt, All stone, all history, but the sky leaned on them like
it trusted they wouldn't break. I thought about how long they've
stood here. Centuries of weather, of people
who left and never came back. Even silence must echo when it's
carried. This time, for a moment, I
didn't feel small. I felt untethered, like the
towers were holding the weight of remembering for me so I
didn't have to. Freedom is in wings.
Not really. It's the ground not asking you
to explain why you're still walking.
It's being able to stand in front of walls this old and not
feel their questions pressing into your chest.
I didn't think of Ellie at first.
Not in the carving shaped like ropes, not in the Rose window
that caught the sun. For once, the silent wasn't
pointing me back to him. It was just stone.
Stone that had seen everything and didn't need me to add my
story. I let myself look up until my
neck ached. The skies fell between the
towers, so open it almost felt careless.
And I thought, maybe that's all freedom is.
Not forgetting, not erasing, just standing under the towers
of something that has lasted and realizing the weight is theirs
to hold. Not mine.
Inside, the air shifted cooler, heavier, as if it had been
waiting centuries for someone to notice.
The light poured through the glass and fell across the floor.
Not loud, not commending, just steady, like it had made peace
with the stone. I walked the center aisle, not
hurried, not looking for anything, just watching the
light lean against the columns like a hand finding a shoulder.
For once I didn't feel out of place.
The ceiling stretched too high to touch, but it didn't make me
small. It made the silence bigger.
And in that space I could breeze without rushing.
I thought about how light doesn't belong to anyone.
It falls where it wants. Across wood, across stone,
across the seat that might have been his.
But today was only wood in sunlight.
And I wondered if that's what freedom is.
Not feeling every absence, not explaining every shadow, but
letting light fall where it does without asking it to mean more
than it is. I sat for a moment in the sun,
Let it land on my hands, let it tell me nothing.
And for the first time in a while, that was enough.
The courtyard was open but not empty.
Stone on four sides, but The Archers made space for the sky
to lean in. I sat near the fountain, not
because I was tired, but because I wanted to hear water instead
of my own thoughts. The carvings wound their way
around the arches. Robes, shells, leaves, all these
details someone cared enough to shake, even though the centuries
had already promised to wear them down.
I wondered if they thought about time, or just the quiet joy of
tracing stone into something alive.
It didn't feel like a place for grief.
The silence here wasn't asking for memory, wasn't reminding me
of absence. It was just silence, the kind
you can lead back into like sun against your shoulders.
I let myself sit without answering to anyone, without
holding or naming what wasn't here.
I thought of Ellie briefly, the way absence always tries to pull
at the corner of things, but here even that thought softened,
as if the arches caught it and held it still until it faded.
The Chapel was darker than the nave, stone pressing close,
shadows leaning in. I lit a candle, not because I
had words, but because sometimes silence needed its own shape.
I didn't say his name, not here, not to the walls, not even to
myself. The flame didn't need it.
It burned without asking, without tying itself to memory.
For a moment I thought about prayer, about how it's supposed
to rise up out, carried by fire and smoke.
But this candle just stayed. It didn't reach it didn't plead.
It only burned, quiet and sure, like it knew the dark was
enough. I could have named Ellie.
I could have let the flame speak for me.
But freedom isn't always saying less.
Sometimes it's knowing silence is enough.
So I left it Kendall without words, a flame without claim,
and for a moment, walking away felt freer than naming anything
at all. The cafe smelled of sugar and
cinnamon. I told myself it was just habit
to order the tart, to sit by the window, to watch the sun spill
across the plate. It was ordinary, sweet, warm,
golden, something small to remind me that not every silence
has to be heavy. I looked up, and through the
glass I saw him. Not clear, not long enough to
hold, just daily. His shape caught in the light,
passing by as if the street was the only place he ever belonged.
My chest froze. The spoon stopped halfway.
For a second the cafe felt quiet, the tart forgotten, the
air itself waiting. I pushed the chair back.
I ran out the door, heart beating like it still knew his
name. The street was already empty,
just the rivers light, just the sound of galls, just absence.
Patient as ever, I stood there, breast caught between freedom
and longing, and knew he was gone, or maybe he never been
there at all. But the tart would still be
waiting inside. The light would still fall
across the plate and die. I would still walk forward,
carrying both the freedom and the echo like the river carried
its tide. Eli, the one who stayed, Matios,
the one who left. Two names carried through walls
of stone, through light that fell without asking, through
silence that did not demand an answer.
Here in the church, the walls remembered more than they said,
and Matthios learned that freedom is not the absence of
echoes, but the choice to keep walking even when they follow.
This was the Echo Between Worlds, Part 6.
What the walls remembered 5 echoes.
One church that has stood through centuries.
One man who walked past the walls, toward the river, toward
whatever comes next. If this story has stayed with
you, Please remember to subscribe, share, and leave a
review. It helps the echoes find others
who might need them too. And if you missed the earlier
parts, go back and hear where the echoes began.
Until the next part. Thank you for listening.
I. Found your book where the cover
pants the line you want.