The silence was quieter now.
But it wasn't gone.
It lingered in the spaces between words, in the pauses between heartbeats, in the way people looked at each other like they were remembering something just out of reach.
Mira felt it most in her chest.
A pressure that wasn't pain, but wasn't comfort either.
Something unfinished.
Luka noticed the change in her first.
She didn't draw as much anymore.
When she did, the images came slower—like the silence was holding them back.
And when he reached for her hand, trying to feel what she heard, there was nothing.
Just absence.
Like the echoes had taken too much from her.
Eli watched them both carefully.
He didn't pretend to understand everything that had happened. But he knew enough to know that Mira was tired .
Not just physically.
Something deeper.
As if carrying silence for so long had finally worn her down.
He found her by the window one night, sketchpad open on her lap.
But the page was blank.
He sat beside her without speaking.
After a long silence, she signed:
I'm afraid I won't hear them anymore.
He frowned. "You mean the echoes?"
She nodded once.
He exhaled slowly. "Maybe that's a good thing."
She shook her head.
Then drew again.
Fast.
A boy standing alone in a field of ash.
A girl walking backward through time.
A door hidden beneath roots.
At the bottom of the page, she wrote one word:
Forgotten.
Eli swallowed hard. "You think they'll vanish again?"
She hesitated.
Then tapped the edge of the page twice.
Confirmation.
He clenched his jaw. "So what? You have to keep listening forever?"
She met his gaze.
Then signed:
Until they're done remembering.
He ran a hand through his hair. "And what happens when they are?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she flipped to a new page and began drawing again.
This time, it was different.
Not an echo.
Not a memory.
A choice.
Two figures stood at the edge of the forest.
One stepped forward.
The other stayed behind.
Eli stared at it. "You're saying someone has to stay?"
She nodded once.
His stomach dropped. "No."
She touched his arm gently.
Then signed:
It's not goodbye. It's just… not the same path anymore.
He shook his head. "No, Mira. You don't get to decide this alone."
She tilted her head.
Then pointed to his chest.
Signed:
You can remember without me.
He grabbed her hands before she could say anything else. "Don't do this."
She looked at him—steady, calm, full of something he couldn't name.
Then she signed:
I have to.
And he knew.
There was no arguing with silence.
Not when it had already made up its mind.
The next morning, Luka found them both waiting at the birch tree.
The door pulsed faintly beneath the roots, still awake—but slowing.
He looked at Mira. "You're going back in."
She nodded.
He frowned. "Alone?"
She hesitated—then shook her head.
Then signed:
One last time. Together.
Luka swallowed hard. "What happens after?"
She reached for his hand.
Placed it over her chest.
And for the first time in days, he felt it again.
The hum.
The rhythm.
The song only the lost could sing.
He closed his eyes.
Then whispered, "You're leaving, aren't you?"
She didn't answer.
She just smiled.
Softly.
Then turned toward the door.
And opened it.