No wind.
No birds.
No hum of lanterns.
Just silence.
Tyke stands.
Alone.
Or thinks he is.
El Como is here.
Inside.
Pressed like a shadow behind his thoughts.
Not speaking.
Never speaking.
Only listening.
Tyke mutters.
His lips move.
Sounds tumble out, but they fall apart before they reach meaning.
"…always the same…never enough…why can't they just—"
Then nothing.
Then more mutters.
A rhythm of complaint, half swallowed.
El Como listens.
Listens without sound.
Listens without judgment.
He cannot reach.
He cannot answer.
Tyke paces.
The ground echoes though there is no ground.
A step.
Another step.
Shoes scrape against something that isn't there.
Silence stretches.
The silence swallows his words.
Fragments slip through.
"…too heavy…"
"…don't care what they say…"
"…tired of it…"
El Como gathers these pieces.
Pockets them.
Does not understand them.
Not yet.
The space bends.
Shifts.
Silent walls rise and vanish.
Sometimes Tyke walks through a street—cobbles, crooked shadows, lamps without flame.
Sometimes he walks through a hall—pillars, arches, banners that hang stiff and still.
Sometimes it is only white emptiness.
The complaints continue.
Always half-lost.
Always breaking off.
"…never listening…never…"
"…doesn't matter…"
"…enough, enough, enough…"
El Como does not reply.
Cannot reply.
He only feels the shape of Tyke's anger.
The shape of his weariness.
The sharp edges of things unsaid.
And he wait
Tyke stops.
Hands to his face.
Fingers pressing against temples.
He shakes his head.
*****
Muttering again.
Quick now.
Harsh.
Too fast for words to settle.
"…can't…not again…not fair…"
"…they think it's easy…never easy…"
Silence swallows the rest.
El Como feels it ripple through the space.
Not sound.
Not language.
But weight.
Heavy weight.
The ground beneath Tyke shifts.
Cobblestones split into pale dust.
Dust into grass.
Grass into nothing.
He walks on anyway.
Pacing, pacing, pacing.
Every step is a drumbeat.
Every breath a gust of thunder in the hush.
"…don't want to carry it…"
"…wish I could…just stop…"
The words blur.
Unfinished.
Slipping into fragments.
El Como stands still.
Invisible.
Listening.
Tyke rubs his arms.
Looks upward.
No sky.
Just a ceiling of silence.
A colorless dome pressing down.
His mutters fall softer now.
Almost pleading.
"…someone should…hear me…"
"…someone…anyone…"
But no one answers.
No voice rises.
Except the silent presence of El Como.
And El Como will not speak.
Cannot.
He waits.
Holds.
Listens.
Tyke's shadow stretches far.
Longer than his body.
Longer than the space itself.
It trails into blackness.
A line of worry.
A tether of unrest.
Tyke kicks at the nothing ground.
The sound explodes.
Sharp.
Then gone.
"…hate it…all of it…"
"…don't even know why I try…"
The words scatter like birds startled from a tree.
Gone before El Como can catch them.
He wishes he could.
Wishes he could hold them, shape them, understand them.
But he remains a listener.
An echo.
A shadow pressed behind Tyke's mind.
Time does not move here.
No sun rises.
No moon sets.
Only pacing.
Only mutters.
Only silence.
Tyke slows.
Shoulders slumped.
Hands loose at his sides.
He breathes heavy.
Each exhale rattles like wind through dry leaves.
"…so tired…"
"…nobody cares…"
"…nobody ever…"
The rest fades.
Only fragments survive.
El Como holds them gently.
Like broken glass.
Dangerous to touch, but impossible to ignore.
The silence deepens.
Thicker now.
Almost physical.
It presses close, a blanket smothering every edge.
Tyke falls to his knees.
Not with drama.
Not with noise.
Just weary.
Collapsing into the hush.
Hands on the nothing floor.
Muttering still.
Softer.
So soft.
El Como leans inward—if leaning is what a thought can do.
"…wish I knew…wish I could tell…"
And then nothing.
Only breathing.
Only silence...
Heavy.
Dense.
Tyke lifts his head.
Eyes red.
Jaw set.
He mutters again.
Faster.
Words tumble, collide, vanish.
"…no one sees…no one ever…like I'm nothing…"
"…always behind…always failing…"
"…if only…if only…"
His voice cracks.
Not loud.
Not clear.
Just broken sound.
El Como listens.
Always listening.
He does not speak.
He does not intrude.
The silence absorbs each fragment.
Shakes them.
Shreds them.
Gives back only echoes.
Tyke clenches his fists.
Strikes the nothing ground.
The silence shivers—
for a moment, a ripple spreads,
then stillness again.
He mutters low.
Lower than before.
Almost whispers.
"…wish it would change…"
"…wish I could be…"
"…not like this…"
His voice fades.
His body sways.
The space around him flickers.
Walls appear—stone, cracked, dripping.
Then gone.
Fields stretch wide—empty, gold with grass.
Then gone.
Always gone.
Tyke stands in nothing once more.
El Como senses the exhaustion.
The spiral of words without meaning.
The endless loop.
But still, he stays quiet.
Silent witness.
Patient passenger.
Tyke drags himself forward.
One step.
Another.
Feet heavy.
Breath uneven.
"…so tired of carrying it…"
"…nobody knows…"
"…don't want this weight…"
Fragments again.
Always fragments.
El Como gathers them.
A collection of broken notes.
A puzzle with missing pieces.
A song without end.
Tyke presses both hands to his chest.
Closes his eyes.
Breathes sharp, shallow breaths.
The silence closes tighter.
Crushing.
Limitless.
His lips move again.
This time slower.
Measured.
"…someday…
…someone will hear…"
And then quiet.
Pure quiet.
El Como waits.
Listening.
Always listening.
Perfect — let's finish this arc with Part 4. This will bring the total close to 3,000 words. We'll keep it fragmented, silent, dreamlike: Tyke mutters in half-phrases, El Como listens, and the background is still nothingness.
Chapter Seven (conclusion)
Time folds.
Stretches.
Snaps back again.
No clock.
No sun.
No measure.
Only Tyke.
And silence.
And El Como.
Tyke rises slowly.
Feet uncertain.
Back bent.
His mutters return.
Choppy.
Rough.
"…they'll never understand…"
"…I keep trying…always trying…"
"…what's the point…"
The words fade at the edges.
Fragments drifting like ash.
El Como gathers them.
Fills invisible hands.
Lets them spill away.
Tyke walks forward.
Into nothing.
Through nothing.
A door appears.
Wood, black, iron hinges.
Silent.
Unmoving.
He touches it.
It dissolves.
Gone again.
"…always out of reach…"
"…never there when I need it…"
Muttering faster now.
A cascade of broken thought.
El Como hears all of it,
but none stays whole.
Tyke's shadow sways.
Splinters.
Breaks into three, four, ten pieces.
All pointing in different directions.
He shouts.
But even the shout is muffled.
Half-swallowed.
Lost.
"…ENOUGH…"
The echo dies instantly.
Silence presses harder.
A cage of air.
An endless wall.
El Como does not move.
Does not speak.
Only receives.
Tyke sinks down again.
Knees to the blank floor.
Hands over his ears.
As if the silence itself is too loud.
"…can't stand it…
…why won't it stop…"
His words blur, disintegrate, collapse.
Meaning collapses with them.
El Como leans closer—
not touching,
not speaking,
just a shadow brushing against thought.
He feels the pulse of Tyke's anger.
Feels the ache of Tyke's weariness.
But he remains silent.
Always silent.
Time bends again.
A thousand heartbeats.
A single breath.
Both at once.
Tyke falls still.
Muttering ceases.
Breathing slows.
Silence thickens.
Complete.
El Como listens.
Waits.
Does not stir.
Somewhere deep,
a name pulses again.
Tyke.
And El Como knows
that in this quiet,
in this nothing,
the story has only just begun.