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It starts with a sound—a footstep, a laugh, a name said too softly. Then silence. Then the echo.

And it never really sounds like the original, does it? Slightly stretched, slightly delayed, slightly lonelier.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. How echoes work. How they’re just sound waves bouncing off surfaces—walls, mountains, empty rooms. Science says they’re reflections of energy. But it feels deeper than that. It feels like proof that the past never really leaves. Just changes shape.

I read somewhere that sound never truly disappears; it just gets quieter, swallowed by time. That somewhere, in some imperceptible way, every word I’ve spoken is still rippling outward, endlessly diluted, endlessly persistent.

That haunts me.

Because if that’s true, then all the things I’ve said in anger, in longing, in love—they’re still out there, decaying in slow motion. Still traveling. Still arriving.

Maybe that’s why certain places feel heavy even when they’re empty. Rooms hold more than furniture. They hold echoes. Conversations, screams, moans, prayers. Sound stains memory the way perfume stains fabric—light but unmistakable.

Sometimes I hear a laugh that sounds like someone I lost. Or a phrase I haven’t said in years sneaks out of my own mouth. And I wonder: is that me, or is that an echo resurfacing? Do we carry these sonic fossils around without realizing?

I think we do. I think we’re all filled with echoes—of people, places, versions of ourselves we’ve long since buried. We call them instincts, moods, nostalgia. But maybe they’re just vibrations we’ve mistaken for emotions.

Echoes travel through space, but they also travel through time. That’s what makes them dangerous. And beautiful. They remind you that the past isn’t past. It’s postponed.

Maybe this is what memory really is. Not a snapshot, but a reverberation. A distortion of something that was once sharp. Still arriving, just not in the form we expected.

And maybe that’s why some goodbyes never feel complete. Because the person may be gone, but their sound is still reaching you.

I’ve started paying attention to silence differently now. I don’t trust it. I know it’s not really empty. It’s filled with echoes pretending to rest.

And the most terrifying part?

Some of those echoes sound like me.

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