Some echoes linger, others fade, but the most stubborn ones, they
live in the choice we repeat. This is the echo between worlds,
a quiet love story told across the city that remembers
everything, told in pieces, in footsteps, in the pauses between
names. It began with Ellie, the one who
stayed, the one who carried silence in every room.
Then we heard Matthios, the one who left, lighter, freer, but
still looking back. They shared no reunion, only a
memory that drifted through doors, over water, on their
windows, left ajar. In the final moment of Part 6,
Matthios passed by a silhouette a second too late.
Ellie never saw him, and maybe that was the point.
Because this isn't a story of return.
This is the final echo, the one where Ellie no longer walks in
memories. Shadow, where he doesn't whisper
the name that used to stop his breath, Where the cup, the
candle, the bed are just objects again.
And Lisbon. Lisbon still remembers, but this
time Ellie choose not to echo. Today, the pattern didn't
repeat. This is the Echo Between Worlds
Part 7. The square didn't echo back.
I passed through the square this morning, Didn't plan to, didn't
avoid it either. The light was already warm on
the stone, those black and white patterns curling beneath my
steps. Lines, I used to think were
traps, circles that always pull me back to the same questions.
Where did you go? Why didn't I follow?
What would have happened if I had?
But today, the pattern didn't repeat.
It was just pavement, just stone warm by the sun.
People passed around me, couples, an old man was a dog,
someone carrying coffee. No one saw me, and for once I
didn't feel the need to be seen. I used to come here with hope,
as if the city would return something I lost, as if every
tile, every shadow might echo your name back to me if I stood
still long enough. But now?
Now I stood in the middle of the square, and it was quiet.
No memory in the corners, no voice in the wind.
Just Lisbon being Lisbon. I thought about sitting, about
letting the lights soak in, but I didn't need to linger.
The silence wasn't asking me to stay anymore, it was still
trying to teach me something. It was just silence, and I was
just walking through it. I didn't leave with grief, I
didn't leave with answers. I left with nothing in my hands,
and that felt like freedom. I didn't plan where to go after
the square, I just walked. No headphones, no list, no need
to make it mean anything. The streets used to trick me.
Every turn felt like a loop, like if I walked the same pass
enough times, you might round the corner again, laughing,
distracted, not knowing I was waiting.
But today the city didn't pull the street we used to take to
the bookstore. I passed it, didn't pause,
didn't look for your reflection in the glass, the alley near the
cafe where you used to stand just to feel the sun hit your
face. I kept walking, not to prove
anything, not out of avoidance, just because I didn't need to go
back. There's a rhythm to Lisbon, a
beat in the stones, in the sway of laundry, from open balconies,
in the scent of bread and salt on the breeze.
I used to think the city was singing your name.
Today, just hunt and I let it. Some streets still remember us,
but they don't belong to us, not anymore, and I think I finally
stopped asking them to. I stepped into the left slowly.
Metal gates closed with a sound that used to make me flinch, but
today I only heard the rhythm of motion upward as the elevator
climbed. Lisbon unfolded beneath me,
first the pattern stones, then the rooftops, then the layers of
city stitched into hills and memory.
I watched the woman adjust her laundry line.
A boy kicked the ball into a narrow alley.
Someone opened the shutter to the sky.
So ordinary, so alive. I used to feel like a ghost
among these streets, always passing through, always afraid
I'd be seen or wouldn't. But now I stood still halfway
up, my reflection flickered in the glass, and I didn't look
away this time. There was a version of me hoping
someone would call out my name. But he's not here.
I kept rising. I let the egg stay with me, but
I didn't let it stop me. And as the doors opened and the
city met my eyes again, I understood something I had
finally outgrown to silence. I didn't expect the quiet to be
this full up here. The wind find you first.
It brushes past my collar, slips through my fingers as I hold the
railing like a pulse. Light, but alive.
Lisbon spreads beneath me like a map I no longer need to read.
Red roofs, faded blue tiles. A line of light where the river
bends, and far in the distance, a sound.
Faro, maybe, or just memory and song.
I used to wonder if Matthios ever stood here, if he ever
looked out at the same sky and thought of me.
I guess I'll never know. But today, that absence doesn't
ache like it used to. It's just part of the city now,
like the rusted corners of this rail, like the names carved into
wood and metal, people who pass through hoping to be remembered.
I'm not here for that. I'm here to listen.
The wind, the light, my own breath steady for once.
For a long time I thought healing would feel like a door
slamming shot, but it doesn't. It feels like air.
I asked for a quiet table and they gave me this.
By the wall, under the warm flicker of an old ball, close
enough to hear the music but far enough to stay unnoticed.
Battle fills the room like candlelight.
Low, aching, honest. There's a red wine in my glass,
1/2 full one across from it. I've never been to this place
before, but it doesn't feel unfamiliar.
Maybe because Lisbon finally doesn't scare me, maybe because
tonight I'm not waiting for a ghost to walk in.
He was introduced by a friend, said he'd be passing through the
city. We don't know what this is, or
if it will be anything but. He smiled when I said yes to
wine. He stepped away.
For a moment, I stayed seated. I don't check my phone.
I just let myself be here. The sound of strings and sorrow,
a candle between US and the quiet relief of not searching
anymore. This was the Echo Between Worlds
Part 7. The square didn't echo back, at
least. Final chapter.
He came to Lisbon chasing what he lost, but the echoes were
never about the past. They were fragments of himself,
the pieces he hadn't dared gather until now.
He walked the pattern pavements, paused at the lift that once
terrified him, stood on a deck where silence didn't answer
back, and finally he sat. In the quiet bar was the Hummer
fado and the steady warmth of his own breath.
Tonight he sit in a place where sorrow used to follow, but it
doesn't anymore. Just the sound of Faro 1/2 glass
of wine and someone new. A quiet connection made through
a friend. We don't know where it will go,
and that's OK because what matter is he showed up.
And maybe this time the pattern won't repeat.
Next time, we'll hear the final echo from Matthios.
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You've come this far. Don't miss the last echo.
Thank you.