The wind changed.
Not sharply.
Not fast.
But enough for the Hermit to stop mid-step.
Casamir stood by the elder tree, hands open to the morning sun, listening for the rhythm beneath leaf and root. He felt the shift too—but not in his skin.
In his memory.
Something that wasn't his stirred like a hand brushing glass. A flicker. A pull. As if a thought too old for words had passed near him on its way somewhere else.
The Hermit watched the boy closely, then lowered himself beside him.
"You felt it," he said.
Casamir nodded. "It wasn't a Thread."
"No," the Hermit agreed. "Older than that.
Or… perhaps just heavier."
He drew a line in the soil with his staff, slowly, carefully.
"There are moments," the Hermit said, "when the world does not whisper forward. It leans backward. Not to repeat. Not to speak. Only to… remind."
Casamir watched the line. It was already fading.
"Remind of what?"
The Hermit tapped his chest.
"Of what you have forgotten.
Of what it refuses to."
A breeze stirred through the branches. The elder tree creaked softly, as if remembering its own name.
—
They sat in silence until the birds dared to return to their songs. The Hermit rubbed the line from the soil with the side of his palm and spoke again.
"You've seen them, haven't you? Small ones, so far."
Casamir nodded.
"A name on the wind.
A place that felt like it once burned.
A girl I've never met, waving from a dream."
The Hermit didn't smile. But he looked pleased.
"Echo Visions," he said. "The world's first language. Images without voice.
Feelings with no anchor. Memory without owner."
Casamir frowned. "They feel real."
"They are. But not yours. Not yet. The world is testing your shape. Wondering if you fit the pattern it lost."
He brushed the bark of the elder tree, fingers trailing over a scar that wasn't natural—like something once carved and healed unevenly.
"Dreams. Reflections. A name called where no mouth moves.
These are not accidents. They are threads brushing threads—and wondering which of you will flinch first."
—
Later that day, the Hermit led him down to the old stone path near the glade's broken well. They rarely walked that far.
The stones were scorched.
A tree nearby leaned inward, its bark blackened but not burned. Roots tangled in patterns too precise for chance—like a script that had been written, erased, and rewritten again.
Casamir slowed.
The air was thinner here. Every step felt like an echo of itself. The trees held their breath.
He saw something shimmer—like air torn at the edges.
Figures.
A woman kneeling.
A boy running, clutching something wrapped in gold.
The sound of bells that didn't ring.
A circle of light closing over broken ground.
Then—gone.
Just wind.
"What was that?"
The Hermit closed his eyes.
"Not ghosts. Not memory, even.
Not truly."
He turned to Casamir.
"Echo Haunts. The world replays what hurt too much to forget. Not to relive. To teach."
"Teach who?"
The Hermit's gaze was steady.
"Whoever is listening."
They stood there a while longer. Then the Hermit knelt and placed his hand on the blackened stone.
"This place… burned before you ever came. But it remembers your shape."
Casamir said nothing. His breath came shallow, like the air was pressing back.
But something beneath his ribs itched. Not pain. Not heat.
Something old.
Something waking.
And for just a heartbeat—he remembered being here. Not in his life. In someone else's. He could almost feel the heat of the fire on his skin, hear someone shouting a name he didn't yet know.
It was his voice.
But not his mouth.
—
That night, Casamir did not sleep.
He woke breathless, his hands gripping his chest. He'd dreamed of a blade that hummed when held. Not in his hand.
In hers—
The girl with a scar over one eye, standing in fire without fear.
There were ashes around her feet, but she did not flinch.
And in her voice, something familiar. Not a word. A weight. A name that could not be spoken.
She had looked directly at him. Not with recognition—something sharper.
Grief.
Like she had waited too long for him to arrive. And now he was too late.
He sat up. Pulled his shirt aside.
And found a mark.
Barely visible. Just under the collarbone.
A faint spiral. Like something once torn, then sealed. He hadn't remembered it before. But now—
It pulsed.
Not with pain, but recognition.
He touched it. Cold at first, then warm. A shiver ran up his spine. Not fear. Not entirely.
It was knowing. And it did not come from him.
—
The Hermit found him sitting by the water the next morning, silent.
He didn't ask. Just sat beside him, staring at the reflection.
"You found one," the Hermit said.
Casamir nodded. "It hurts."
"It should."
He tapped Casamir's arm once.
"Echo Wounds are not injuries. They are reminders.
Scars that return not to punish—but to warn."
"Warn of what?"
The Hermit's voice was softer now.
"That you are not the first to carry this shape."
Casamir looked down at the mark. It was fading already. But he could still feel it—like the ghost of a blade once drawn.
Like the weight of a promise no one had told him he made.
He turned his hand slowly, palm open.
The mark was not on his hand. And yet—
He could almost feel the shape of the blade from the dream. Humming. Waiting.
"Can they be healed?" he asked.
"No," the Hermit said. "But they can be answered."
He turned his gaze to the forest again, where the mist curled like old breath.
"When the time comes… you will know whether to open the wound wider—or sew it closed with something the world has not seen before."
They sat there until the mist rose.
The trees were quiet, as if listening.
And the water, usually still, rippled once—as though something had moved beneath.
—
And in the trees, just out of sight,
a shadow moved.
It did not step closer.
But it watched.
And waited.
Not for the boy.
But for the moment the world would call him something else.
Something it had once called before—
And lost.
Not the Chosen. Not the cursed.
But a name older than both.
A name the world itself had stitched into the wound—
and forgotten how to say aloud.
The shadow did not breathe. It did not stir the leaves or break the mist. But the air thickened where it lingered, as if time itself curled inward around its shape. Not malice. Not yet. Only memory given weight.
Casamir turned slightly, eyes narrowing. He saw nothing—only trees. But his skin knew. His ribs knew. Something unseen had pressed against the veil of this moment.
A whisper almost formed in his throat.
Not a name.
A question.
And the question was his.
The Hermit exhaled beside him, low and steady.
"It is listening," he murmured.
Casamir did not answer. But his hand hovered near the fading mark.
Not to hide it.
To remember it was there.
And to wonder whose it had once been.