Echo

The voice goes out and doesn't return— only the shape of it lingers, a kind of scar in the air.

We keep speaking anyway, filling the gaps between silence, learning that some things need to break before they teach us.

A name called across water. The water doesn't answer, but something in it remembers, something in us too.

What remains is not the sound. It's the listening— the way we lean in, half-expecting an echo of what we already know.