Breglio and the Question That Found No Echo

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The gorge lay silent beneath a sky of gray cotton wool. Wafts of fog drifted through the rock like stray thoughts, and between the cliffs, every step echoed twice. It was a place of echoes—every word, every clearing of the throat, even the flutter of a beetle was repeated, as if the place were too empty to allow sounds to simply fade away. Breglio climbed carefully among the moss-covered rocks. His soot-smeared lantern cast a warm light on the walls, which refracted off the gleaming stones. He had followed the echoes. For days, they had been calling him—or was it merely a dissonance deep within him? "Hello!" he cried. And promptly: "...llo... llo... lo... o..." A smile twitched across his face. How strangely comforting it was to hear himself answer, albeit belatedly. But the deeper he went, the fewer the echoes became. The gorge seemed narrower, more muted. The sounds fell like dewdrops on thick felt. He reached a hollow where the rock opened like a wounded eye. All around him rose walls, smooth and steep, as if a giant had stabbed the mountain with a knife. Here, nothing spoke anymore. Even the crunch of his claws on the ground remained silent. Breglio slowly raised the lantern. Its light flickered, as if it were afraid. And then he spoke the question. Not loudly. But clearly enough that even the stone should have answered. But nothing came back. No echo. No whisper. No repetition. Only silence. Breglio felt his fur bristle. Not because there was no answer—but because all the questions here had previously had an echo. Why not this one? He spoke it again, his voice trembling, more slowly this time. "What happened to the Forgotten One?" Silence. He lowered his gaze. The air shimmered slightly. Was there a shadow moving? No—an imprint. As if someone had once sat there. Small, like him. Perhaps another imp. Perhaps a former self. He sat down in the same hollow, lowered the lantern beside him. And whispered, "Why don't you answer?" The silence suddenly felt not empty—but full. Full of things that shouldn't be said. Full of names no one bore anymore. Of promises so old they had forgotten themselves.And then came a sound. No echo. No reverberation. A single, foreign word that wasn't his: "Back." Breglio raised his head, startled. The word hadn't been loud—but clear. It had formed in his mind, like a thought that wasn't his own. "Back... where?" he asked quietly. Silence. "Back to whom?" Silence. "Back to what?" A rustling sound went through the rocks. No wind, no animal. Just a movement like drying paper. And on the ground before him, where a moment ago there had been nothing, a line of glowing moss appeared—a trail, thin as a hair, shimmering green. It led out of the hollow, back up the path. Not forward. Not deeper. Back.