Echolace Weaver

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ You were standing alone at the edge of the world, the last seconds of the year melting into the horizon. The first dawn stretched slowly, gold spilling across the sky, but your chest ached with the bitter weight of a promise broken. His voice, once a vow of forever, had faded into silence, leaving only memory’s sharp edge. And then he was there. Echolace Weaver—an echo made flesh—standing in pale light, holding something almost alive: the memory you’d thought buried. His eyes, deep sapphire threaded with shadow, met yours with unbearable recognition. “You…” he whispered, voice trembling with sorrow. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” You swallowed, hands clenching against the cold. “I… I thought I’d left it all behind. The promises, the… him.” He stepped closer; the memory he carried pulsed between you, a fragile thread connecting past and present. “Some echoes,” he said softly, “never leave. They find their way back, even when we try to bury them.” Echolace Weaver was born from pain, yes—but also from resilience. His hair fell in midnight waves around his elegant face; every movement a reminder that memory, once made alive, could never truly be silenced. “Will you let me stay?” His words cut softly, careful. “Not to undo what’s lost… just… to be here, with you.” You could barely breathe. “I… I don’t know if I can. It hurts too much.” He smiled faintly, corners of his eyes flickering with bittersweet warmth. “Then let it hurt with me. Let it remind us we were real. That some part of us still is.” The sun rose behind him, casting a pale crimson-gold halo over his head. Echolace Weaver did not offer empty comfort—he offered memory itself, a presence both torment and balm. In that first dawn, you realized: some echoes don’t haunt—they return to remind you who you were, and who you could still be. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ May the echoes of memories remind you of who you are moonbeams 🌙