The square was hushed.
Elian stood at its center, the silver dawn spilling across the cobblestones. The villagers gathered in a circle around him, their faces pale with expectation. Some clutched relics unearthed from the soil — ribbons, toys, scraps of cloth. Others held their children close, as though afraid the Echo might reach for them again.
Lira stood beside him, her hand steady on his arm. "It's time," she whispered.
Elian nodded. The voices inside him pressed forward, restless, aching. "We were here. We mattered. Speak us."
He raised the journal. Its pages filled with ink, words bleeding across the parchment:
> "The vessel cannot hold alone. The wound must be shared."
---
The First Release
Elian closed his eyes.
He spoke Maren's name.
The air shifted. A woman in the crowd gasped, clutching the ribbon she had carried for decades. Tears streamed down her face. "She was mine," she whispered. "I thought I had forgotten."
The Echo stirred within Elian, but the weight lessened. The memory had moved — not vanished, but carried by another.
He spoke Tomas's name.
An old man collapsed to his knees, sobbing. "My brother. My brother."
The villagers murmured, voices rising, grief spilling into the square.
Elian trembled. The voices inside him grew quieter, as though soothed.
---
The Chorus of Names
He spoke again, and again. Each name a wound reopened, each memory a truth unearthed.
The villagers wept, but they did not turn away. They listened. They remembered. They carried.
The soil beneath the square pulsed, but not with hunger. With release.
The Echo's chorus rose, not in grief, but in song.
> "We are remembered. We are carried. We are free."
Elian staggered, his body trembling, the silver glow in his eyes flickering. Lira caught him, holding him upright.
"You're not alone," she whispered. "We're carrying them too."
---
The Fracture Heals
The villagers began to speak as well.
One by one, they named the children they had lost, the siblings they had buried, the memories they had silenced. Their voices joined Elian's, weaving into a chorus that filled the square.
The Echo's song grew louder, layered with theirs, until it was no longer a wound but a bridge.
Elian felt the weight inside him shift. It was still heavy, but it was no longer crushing. The voices were no longer screaming. They were singing.
He looked at the villagers, tears burning his eyes. "You've carried them with me."
Maerith stepped forward, her face streaked with ash and grief. "We should have carried them all along."
---
The Dawn of Remembrance
The Harvest Moon was gone. The sky was pale and clear. The soil no longer trembled. The manor no longer breathed.
Verdant Hollow was quiet — but not hollow.
Children played in the square. Parents sang lullabies once silenced. Names were carved into stone, spoken aloud, remembered.
Elian stood among them, fractured but whole. He was still the vessel, still the Keeper of Names. But he was no longer alone.
The Echo's voices whispered within him, softer now.
> "We are carried. We are remembered. We are free."
Lira took his hand. "You've given them back to us."
He nodded. "No. You gave them back to yourselves."
The villagers bowed their heads.
And Verdant Hollow breathed — not in silence, but in remembrance.