Some stories don't begin where you expect.
This one began in silence. 5 echoes in Lisbon.
Memories spoken unanswered, carried through streets that
remembered too much. First we heard one side, then
the other, and for a long time one name was never spoken.
Until now, Ellie. We know him now, not just as a
voice in the quiet, but as the one who stayed, the one who ate,
the one still finding how to breathe again.
This part belongs to him. And though the ache is not fully
gone, Lisbon is beginning to sound different.
Not healed, not finished, but lighter.
I heard it, my name, not loud, not clear, but enough to stop me
under the street lamp. No one has called me that here
in so long. Liz Benoni knew me through
silence, through absence. But tonight, for a moment, the
city remembered me. Matthios.
I waited like maybe the air would answer, like maybe he
would turn the corner, like maybe saying it aloud could
bring him back. But nothing came.
Just the night, just me. And somehow that was enough.
It startled me, saying it. The name felt heavier than I
remembered, but not unbearable, not like before.
I think I could carry it now, Carry him not as a wound, but as
something that happened, something that mattered.
The ache is still here, but lighter, not gone, just
shifting. For the first time, I felt like
I might be able to keep walking without breaking.
I dreamt you said my name. Not the way it used to be.
Half a laugh, half a secret. This time it was slower,
uncertain, like the word itself wasn't sure it belonged here
anymore. In the dream, we were in the
kitchen. The light was too warm, the air
too still. You were standing by the
counter, one hand on the chipped cup, the one I thought I threw
away. You looked at me like no time
had passed, like nothing had broken.
I tried to answer, but the dream didn't wait.
It blurred the edges, turned the room sideways, pushed me back
into silence. I reached out my hand, didn't
find yours. It found the empty pillow.
I woke with your name in my mouth, not spoken, but almost
like the dream had tried to finish what I couldn't.
They say time heals when you're awake, but maybe sleep knows
better. Maybe sleep remembers the things
I try not to. And maybe tonight the dream
spoke first, so I didn't have to.
I started with the bed. The sheet still carried you even
after all this time. The scent wasn't yours anymore,
not really, but my body kept remembering every time I lay
down. The silence felt like a shape I
couldn't sleep beside. So I bought new bedding, Clean,
unfamiliar, not ours. The old set.
I didn't fold it, didn't wash it.
I tied it into a bag and threw it away.
It felt wrong, like erasing proof that you were ever here.
But when I spread the new fabric out, the bed looked lighter.
I told myself it was just cotton, just fabric.
Nothing sacred. But maybe letting go on one
thing is enough to remind me I can't keep going.
I didn't stop with the bed. The sheets were only the first
thing, but once they were gone, I saw everything else that still
carried you. The curtains.
They smelled of nights we left the window open, of rain that
once blew in when we didn't care.
I pulled them down, bought new ones.
Clean, plain, nothing that remembers.
And the pajamas the pair you left behind have crumpled in the
bottom drawer. I thought about keeping them
just one thing, but the thought of wearing them felt like
pretending you might walk in again.
So I folded them, and this time I let them go.
Piece by piece, I tried to erase you.
Not cruelly, not angrily, just because I needed to breathe
again. And for a moment the room felt
lighter. Not healed, not finished.
But mine. The candle was next.
I had kept it longer than I should have.
The same scent, Sandalwood and citrus.
The one you lit that morning before the door clicked shut
every time it burned. I swore I heard your voice in
the crackle every time it flickered.
I thought maybe the room still remembered you tonight.
I let it burn down. No saving it, no trimming the
Wick, just sitting beside it until the light faltered.
When the flame finally disappeared, the room felt
darker, but not heavier. I told myself it was just wax,
just scent, nothing sacred. But I didn't leave the room in
shadow. I lit another, a different
scent, something clean, something unfamiliar.
The air felt differently this time.
Not haunted, not heavy. Just mine.
For the first time, the flame didn't carry you.
It carried me. The chipped cup.
I thought I could throw it away, the one that stayed when
everything else was done. I picked it up, ready to let it
go, but my hand stopped halfway. Instead, I poured it one last
drink, let it hold worms again, even if no one would touch it.
I sat across the table, watching the steam rise like it was
breathing. Poor thing, Already damaged,
already marked. What will be the point of
breaking it further? So I left it there.
Maybe tomorrow, maybe then I'll be cruel enough to throw it
away. And so it lingers, the chipped
cup still on the table, not erased, not yet forgiven.
Ellie, the one who stayed. Matthios, the one who left.
Two names finally spoken. 2 echoes still reaching.
Let's been. Hold them both, not as they
were, but as they are now. Unfinished, waiting, still alive
in the quiet between worlds. If these echoes stayed with you,
let them travel further. Subscribe, share or leave a
thought below. Every voice keeps the story
alive. You've been listening to the
Echo Between Worlds Part 5, the name that reached me.