The Echo Within

Sylas hated the forest.

It smelled like rot and damp regret, the way you’d imagine a closet full of forgotten coats might smell if it were left to die. The mud clung to his boots like bad memories, and the gnarled branches clawed at his jacket as though the woods themselves were warning him not to go on. A more sensible man might have turned back. Then again, a more sensible man wouldn’t have come out here in the first place.

Sylas was not a sensible man.

The forest stretched endlessly before him, tangled and suffocating, but that suited him just fine. Endless suited his purpose. The walk was better than standing still, and the alternative—going back—wasn't worth considering. There wasn’t anything to go back to. The people who said otherwise didn’t know what it was to carry the kind of weight that didn’t sit on your shoulders, but rather behind your ribs, pressing inward until even breathing felt like an insult to the world.

His destination, if it could be called that, was a spot he’d read about online—an obscure clearing with a single, ancient tree and a heap of stone that locals whispered about but rarely visited. The “Whispering Hollow,” they called it, as though giving it a name might lend it some kind of mystical significance. Sylas didn’t care about the significance. All he cared about was its isolation.

And maybe—just maybe—the possibility of leaving behind the noise in his head.

The fog thickened as he trudged deeper into the forest, a gray curtain that swallowed the world whole. The cold bit at his face, sharp and bitter. He stuffed his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, his fingers brushing against the item tucked inside—a revolver, old and heavy, the kind of relic that felt too real in a world that had started to feel too fake.

Sylas had taken it from his father’s desk drawer three weeks ago, during one of those long silences that stretched between them like a chasm. His father had hardly noticed. He never did, these days. If the man had spoken at all, Sylas imagined it would’ve been to say something profound like, “You ought to get your act together, son.”

Sure. As if “getting his act together” were something you could pick up on aisle seven between the paper towels and canned beans.

By the time Sylas reached the clearing, the fog had thinned, replaced by a golden light that filtered down from the treetops like the promise of something he didn’t quite believe in. The tree in the center was enormous, its branches twisting skyward as though trying to escape the earth altogether. At its base, a jagged stone altar jutted from the ground like a clenched fist.

He stared at it for a long moment, his hand brushing against the revolver in his pocket. This was it. The end of the line. A fittingly dramatic stage for the final act of a man who’d spent his life fumbling through the wings.

Sylas sat down on the altar, pulling the gun from his pocket and setting it beside him. He ran his fingers over the cold steel, tracing the curves and edges as though the touch might steady him. It didn’t.

The whispers started then—soft, insistent, like voices carried on the wind.

“Lies,” he muttered, shaking his head. “It’s just the wind.”

But the voices didn’t stop. They grew louder, weaving together into a chorus of accusation and regret. Sylas pressed his hands to his ears, his heart hammering in his chest. “Shut up,” he hissed. “Just shut up!”

The whispers only laughed.

The light around him began to shift, twisting and bending until the forest dissolved into something else entirely. Sylas found himself standing in a vast, empty plain, the ground cracked and barren. Before him stood a man—a gaunt, hollow-eyed figure with an expression that could’ve frozen the sun.

“What do you want?” Sylas asked, his voice raw.

The man didn’t answer. He only stared, his gaze piercing and unrelenting. It was like looking into a broken mirror, the kind that showed all the parts of yourself you’d rather not acknowledge.

“You’re wasting your time,” Sylas said bitterly. “There’s nothing left to save.”

The man smiled, a cold, thin thing. “Do you really believe that?”

Sylas opened his mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “What does it matter?”

“It matters,” the man said, “because you’re lying to yourself.”

The words hit like a hammer. Sylas staggered back, shaking his head. “I’m not—”

“You are,” the man interrupted. “You’ve spent your life running from yourself, drowning in bitterness and blame because it’s easier than facing the truth. But you can’t run forever.”

Sylas felt the ground shift beneath him, the barren plain splitting open to reveal jagged, yawning chasms. The man stepped closer, his shadow stretching long and dark.

“Tell me,” he said. “What are you really looking for?”

Sylas shook his head, his voice a whisper. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

The realization hit Sylas like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless and trembling. It wasn’t the forest he’d hated. It wasn’t the whispers or the weight of the revolver or even the empty ache in his chest.

It was himself.

For years, he’d carried his own shadow like a noose, suffocating under the weight of his mistakes and failures. He’d come to the forest looking for an end, but what he’d found was something far more terrifying: a beginning.

Sylas sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t know how to fix it,” he admitted, his voice breaking.

“You don’t have to fix it,” the man said gently. “You just have to face it.”

The figure reached out, placing a hand on Sylas’s shoulder. The world around them began to fade, the golden light returning as the forest reassembled itself. When Sylas opened his eyes, he was alone again, the whispers gone.

The revolver lay on the ground beside him, untouched. He picked it up, staring at it for a long moment before slipping it back into his pocket. Then, with a deep breath, he turned and started back the way he’d come.

The forest still smelled like rot and regret, but for the first time, Sylas noticed something else.

The air was crisp.

The sun was rising.

And he was still here.