He faced forward, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket.
"Just a Lullaby."
Yet his shoulders remained rigid, tension knotting beneath his skin. Thoughts roared louder than ever, invading the silence.
He passed shuttered shops, windows fogged from the lingering humidity. A newspaper clung to a lamppost, soaked and forgotten, ink bleeding like a wounded thing. Faint ripples stirred in puddles at his feet, but no one passed him. No vendors shouted. No carriages passed. No children played. The city, moments ago alive with color and noise, now felt hollowed out, as though it had exhaled all its people and forgotten how to breathe them back in.
As he stepped onto the pavement, the usual chorus of voices, rustling leaves, and distant dog barks faded into a muffled hush. Glancing back, he caught sight of people absorbed in their routines, unaware of the growing stillness. Echo spotted the restaurant again — modest and worn, the crooked sign creaking gently in the wind. Just outside it, an old man hunched in a wooden chair, one leg crossed, his newspaper half-drenched and unread. He didn't seem to notice Echo, or anything at all. Across the street, the poor families had returned to their quiet scramble. A woman knelt beside a puddle, washing a child's tattered shirt in the dirty water. A boy with bandaged feet crouched by a drainpipe, collecting stray coins or perhaps scraps of copper. One man, face gaunt with hunger, leaned over a barrel fire made from wet books, shaking his hands for warmth though the flame barely lived. An old woman drew chalk symbols on the stone wall beside her, mumbling through missing teeth — eyes shut, as if drawing from memory.
His gaze lifted slowly toward the sky — clouds hung low, but the light had softened, casting a faint glow after the rain.
He resumed walking, directionless, swallowed by the city's creeping silence. No faces appeared ahead. No birds traced the air. Only his own footsteps echoed, until a second set brushed close behind him.
Before he could whirl around, a cold hand rested on his shoulder.
"Tag."
Echo turned, confronting a shadowy silhouette — his own reflection twisted in darkness. Same height, same hair, same face but pale and sharp. His skin looked drained of warmth. Clothes hung the same way.
"Remember when we played this? Tag... you always hated losing."
The air around them felt dense. The street had emptied entirely. The man with the newspaper was gone. So was the mother and child. The windows of the buildings turned dark and reflective, showing only shadows in their panes. Even the breeze had stopped.
"You're it."
The figure vanished, devoured by the darkness stretching behind him. Echo's eyes widened.
The air thickened around him, as if the city itself had been holding its breath. Light poured unnaturally bright across the pavement, casting sharp shadows. He turned in slow circles, scanning his surroundings, and panic slipped beneath his skin. The silence had weight now. Each breath felt heavier than the last — thin, strained, as if the world had forgotten how to carry oxygen.
High above, perched on the edge of a distant building, he spotted the figure again — his own face etched into a crooked smile.
Echo bolted toward the nearest door. The knob gave under his grip, and he stumbled inside. The room greeted him with eerie order: tidy furniture, a few scattered belongings, yet an emptiness lingered between the walls.
Stairs spiraled upward. He climbed, floor after floor, each step slower than the last. The air clung to his skin like wet cloth. Every breath rasped through his throat, shallow and wheezing. The stairwell seemed endless — an ascent into nowhere.
At the top, a door waited. Locked. He threw his shoulder against it — once, twice, again. The wood groaned but held. On the fourth attempt, it creaked open with a shudder.
Inside, the room was barren — bare walls, splintered floorboards, a single wooden chair. The figure sat in it, smiling with frost in his eyes. The expression wasn't joyful. It was empty.
Echo staggered. His knees buckled, vision blurring at the edges. A scream curled in his chest, but he lunged instead.
The figure leaned back, falling into the mirror behind him and Echo followed.
The glass didn't shatter, It rippled. He fell through and landed in a graveyard. His boots landed in wet grass, the earth damp and cold beneath his palms. A wall of fog rolled across the ground, too thick to see more than a few feet ahead. Everything beyond felt hidden, waiting.
In an instant, he stood in a graveyard shrouded in thick fog, the weight of darkness pressing down. Silent tombstones loomed around him, their shapes twisted by shadow and mist.
Turning around, he spotted a tall iron gate behind him — shut tight. Beyond it, a forest swayed slowly, as if breathing in unison with the mist. The trees creaked. Leaves rustled without wind.
He rose cautiously, heart pounding with dread over what awaited him. Each step disturbed the wet grass, the soft rustle swallowed by an eerie silence. The wind cut sharp and cold, freezing Echo in place more than once.
The quiet stretched taut, then stretched further — until a silent crescendo filled the air. Tombstones multiplied, crowding the path like silent sentinels. A sudden caw shattered the stillness. A crow burst from the shadows, wings beating fiercely. Echo flinched, stumbling back, sweat prickling his skin despite the cold.
Out of the mist, a shadow slid smoothly from one tomb to another. It moved deliberately, its motion fluid yet unnatural. Panic surged. Echo sprinted forward, weaving past crumbling gravestones, some sinking or shifting on their own.
The shadow pursued relentlessly, weaving through the haunted graveyard behind him.
At the dead end, an angelic statue stood sentinel — wings spread wide, stone eyes cold and unyielding. Beside it lay an axe, its blade gleaming faintly in the dim light. Echo seized the weapon, gripping it tightly, and scanned the fog-laden surroundings, every muscle taut and ready.
He retraced his steps, shadows flickering between tombstones. The figure slipped from one gravestone to another, then revealed itself.
"You better catch me if you want to leave this place!"
The voice echoed his own — childlike, filled with excitement and playful giggles. Echo advanced cautiously, axe gripped tight, but the shadow passed through a tomb, glancing back with a taunting grin.
"Come on! Is that all you've got?"
Echo followed, stalking rather than running. Suddenly, the shadow darted across his path, forcing him to stumble backward. Tombstones enclosed him, a cold maze.
The shadow slipped past again. Echo swung his axe — metal met cold stone with a harsh clang. A grunt escaped him. Without hesitation, he charged, matching the shadow stride for stride. His next swing struck stone once more. The dry grass swirled as distant crows cried out.
His eyes caught a name carved deep into the tomb: Ronald.
His breath hitched. Step by careful step, he backed away.
The childish voice taunted from the fog,
"You're terrible at this game. I'll go easy on you next time!"
A guttural growl rumbled in Echo's chest as he swung fiercely, but instead of cold stone, his blade met a fragile surface — glass, shimmering and alive. The mirror rippled like liquid mercury, its surface bending and pulling at the edges, drawing him deeper, sealing him within its haunted depths.
His mother sat bound to a wooden chair—ankles lashed to the legs, wrists pinned tight behind her back. A faded cloth gag cut into the corners of her mouth, her blindfold stained with tears. The room around them was devoured by darkness, no windows, no walls, only a single ticking clock perched somewhere unseen, its rhythm cruel and mechanical.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
She whimpered — a sound soft enough to be missed, yet it carved through him like a blade. A broken plea buried beneath layers of cloth and fear.
"Mom!"
He tried to move — commanded his arms, his legs, anything — but his limbs hung uselessly. His body was a shell, frozen in place, veins filled with lead.
Footsteps echoed behind him. Each step measured like a ritual.
"Poor boy..... All this time, you've been chasing shadows. And now, when it truly matters... you're helpless."
From the gloom emerged a familiar shape — his own face staring back at him, wearing a smirk twisted by mockery. It leaned in, eyes shining with malice, breath brushing against Echo's ear.
"You're always pretending to be the hero."
He leaned in close, fingers guiding Echo's frozen hand toward his pocket, wrapping it around the cold steel of a revolver.
"No, no! Don-" Echo's voice cracked under the weight of terror, his breath trembling as sweat trickled down his temple.
"Easy now." The shadow whispered with false tenderness. "Let her go. She's tired. You can see it in her breath. That shallow, desperate gasp. She's begging you... to end it."
Across the room, her body jerked against the restraints, writhing in panic. The wooden chair scraped faintly against the floor, her chest heaving in terror. Her life hung in the balance and he was the fulcrum.
The revolver in his hand rose slowly. Not by his will. A puppet mimicking the motions of execution. The barrel aligned with her chest.
"I'll count to three.... Ready?"
"No wait! I can fix this! We can fix this!" Echo's teeth clenched, tears welling as his arms betrayed him.
One...
"You're not strong enough to save anyone."
Two...
"You always hesitate. You always hope. And every time, they bleed for it."
Three...
"You exist to fail."
Bang!
Echo's eyes opened. He stood once more on the pavement. No sweat clung to his skin. His heart beat slow. But the quiet throb in his skull reminded him it hadn't been a dream.
He glanced around — behind him stood Selene's small restaurant, its chipped sign creaking softly in the breeze. The familiar scent of fried oil and warm broth lingered in the air. Across the street, the old man's wooden chair sat empty — no newspaper rustling in his hands. The dog nearby had shifted its attention to chasing leaves, barking half-heartedly at the wind.
Around him, life returned to its usual rhythm. Retired couples strolled by, trading soft conversation. A trio of young men in wrinkled shirts and loosened ties returned home from work, their shoes tapping over the cracked sidewalk.Laughter floated behind them. The sky wore hues of peach and violet, with the sun dipping low behind a thin curtain of drifting clouds. Shadows stretched long across the street.
Without warning, warmth trickled down Echo's upper lip. He brushed his nose with his hand — blood. A sharp red smear across his fingers. Across the street, a boy holding an ice cream cone stared wide-eyed at him, mouth slightly open. Echo held the boy's gaze for a moment — long enough to know he'd be remembered as part of a story told at dinner, voice hushed, parents dismissing it as nonsense.
Echo turned his head, wiped the blood clean, and walked off without a word.
"That was scary..."
Behind him, the wind whispered through the empty chair. The thought surfaced without invitation — not his voice. A second presence stirring inside.
"I'm always the part you refuse to see."