Nessa dreamed in melody.
Not one made of notes or instruments, but something deeper—something woven from silence itself.
In her dream, she stood beneath the birch tree where the door had once been. The air shimmered with unseen energy, and around her, echoes gathered—not lost, not forgotten, but listening .
Then came the music.
It didn't play from a speaker.
Didn't hum through headphones.
It rose from the earth like breath caught in wind.
Soft.
Familiar.
Like a lullaby half-remembered from childhood.
She turned toward its source.
And there he was.
The boy who had waited.
He stood beside a tree, fingers moving as if conducting something invisible.
With each motion, the song deepened.
Not louder.
Just more real .
More felt .
Nessa reached for him.
But before she could touch his hand—
The dream shifted.
And the music changed.
She woke up gasping.
Her hands trembled.
Luka sat beside her, watching closely.
"You heard it again, didn't you?" he signed.
She nodded once.
Then reached for her sketchpad.
Drew fast.
A boy standing beneath a tree, hands raised as if weaving sound into silence.
Around him, spirals curled outward like ripples in water.
At the bottom of the page, she added something new.
The song isn't just memory. It's how they speak.
Luka studied the drawing carefully.
Then signed:
You think he's the one making it?
Nessa hesitated.
Then signed back:
I think he's helping them remember how to sing.
Back in Hollowbrook, the town responded in quiet ways.
Miss Dara reported students humming unfamiliar melodies during class—some without realizing they were doing it.
Mr. Kael found a small wooden flute resting on the shelf of forgotten things, though no one remembered placing it there.
And every so often, when the wind shifted just right, people swore they heard music carried on the air.
Not loud.
Not intrusive.
Just enough to remind them—
That silence had never been empty.
It had only been waiting.
Eli listened carefully as Nessa explained what she had seen.
He didn't interrupt.
Didn't question.
Just watched her face, searching for something only he understood.
Then he signed:
Mira used to draw the echoes. You're drawing their songs.
Nessa tilted her head.
Then nodded slowly.
Signed back:
They're not just memories anymore. They're trying to say goodbye.
Eli exhaled softly.
Then pointed toward the forest.
Signed:
Then we go back. And we listen.
They returned to the birch tree at dusk.
The door remained open beneath its roots, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat slowing to rest.
Nessa stepped forward first.
Placed her palm against the wood.
Closed her eyes.
And for the first time—
She heard the song clearly.
Not in words.
Not in sound.
But in rhythm.
In meaning.
In light.
It wasn't just coming from the boy this time.
It came from all of them.
Echoes scattered through the town, voices buried beneath years of forgetting, memories trapped in silence now finding shape.
Each note was a story.
Each pause, a breath held too long.
Each echo, a voice finally spoken.
Inside the echo-town, the boy stood waiting.
This time, he wasn't alone.
Behind him, others gathered—some familiar, some new.
They moved in slow rhythm, their steps forming patterns across the ground like symbols drawn in dust.
And in the center of it all, the spiral pulsed.
Still shifting.
Still speaking.
Still remembering.
Nessa stepped forward.
The boy met her gaze.
Signed clearly:
You can hear us now. That means you can help us leave.
She swallowed hard.
Then signed back:
How?
He looked past her—toward Luka. Toward Eli.
Signed:
You don't need to stay here to carry our stories. You just need to keep listening.
Nessa blinked.
Then asked:
What happens when I do?
The boy smiled faintly.
Signed:
We become part of the silence that speaks.
She looked at Luka.
Then at Eli.
Then back at the boy.
Signed softly:
Will I forget you?
He hesitated.
Then drew in the dust-covered ground—a spiral opening outward, then fading into wind.
Signed:
Only if you stop listening.
That night, the echoes sang.
Not in words.
Not in sound.
But in rhythm.
In presence.
In light.
Nessa closed her eyes and let the melody move through her.
She didn't try to hold it.
She just let it be .
One by one, the figures began to vanish—not in fear, not in sorrow—but in release.
Some smiled.
Others simply nodded.
And as they faded, the town felt lighter.
As if it had finally remembered how to breathe.
Back in Hollowbrook, the change was subtle.
People began humming unfamiliar tunes while walking home.
Children tapped out rhythms against tabletops, unaware they were echoing something older than themselves.
And in the quiet corners of homes, schools, and forgotten places—
Someone listened.
Always.
Because silence had never been empty.
It had only been waiting.
For someone like her.
To remember how to hear.