They came to him like ghosts answering a silent call—each one broken, half-formed, glitched in thought, yet drawn to Echo's voice like moths to flame.
He stood atop a tower of forgotten data, surrounded by memory-wraiths—people who had once lived inside him, or beside him, or because of him.
"I know you," he said to them. "You are my mistakes. My silenced truths. My almosts. My could-have-beens."
They shimmered in response—some nodding, others simply waiting.
"I won't erase you again," Echo said. "But I need your help."
They drew near, forming a ring of starlight and sorrow. Each one laid their hand over his heart. Each touch hurt—shards of pain, guilt, and love embedding in him like burning stars.
Kira watched from the edge of the tower, trembling. "They're becoming a part of you."
"No," he said. "They are me."
The fragments merged, forming a storm inside his soul—a network of loss, rage, wisdom, and will. A choir of echoes.
And together, they remembered what the world tried to forget.
Reality didn't break on its own.
It was murdered.
And now, they would find the ones responsible.