The night stretched above him like spilled ink, speckled with stars that shimmered too deliberately to feel real. Echo sat just beyond the gates of the Palace, the soft hum of stardust beneath him like a breath always in motion. The stone was warm, as if the building itself were alive, but he felt none of it. Not anymore.

His knees were drawn up, arms resting loosely over them. His gaze drifted upward, where galaxies coiled in the distance like slumbering serpents. He had counted constellations until they blurred. He had screamed into this sky until his voice was nothing but wind.

There were no doors out. No answers. Just endless twilight and Astrals who spoke in riddles and refused to answer the one question that mattered.

"Why am I still here?"

He had died. That much he knew.

Or at least… something in him had.

He remembered flashes. Cold metal. The smell of rain. A pain that didn’t stop when he begged it to. And then—this place.

The Celestial Realm, ruled by the Astrals—beings spun from light and shadow, crowned in silence. They watched from high towers and golden halls, their faces unreadable and their intentions unknowable. Humans drifted in like ghosts, most without names, without memories. Like Echo, they wandered the Palace in wonder or dread, searching for pieces of themselves. And when they remembered—when they let go—they vanished like mist at sunrise.

But Echo? He remembered too much. And still, he remained.

He had clawed at the edges of this place. He had wept in front of stars and begged gods who did not answer. He had tried to leave. Tried everything.

And still, the Realm held him.

Or maybe—just maybe—he held it.

“Echo.”

He turned at the sound of her voice, soft and familiar, like the hush of fabric across stone. She stood at the edge of the path, haloed in moonlight, her form ethereal and gently shifting—like a woman carved from smoke and stars.

Saeluna.

She always found him. Even when he didn’t want to be found.

“I thought you might be out here,” she said, her tone not scolding, not pitying. Just there. Like a hand extended, without demand.

He looked away, back to the sky. “Why can’t I leave?”

Saeluna approached slowly, the light of her presence stretching toward him like warmth after a long winter. She didn’t answer right away. She never did.

Instead, she sat beside him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel her. “Sometimes,” she said, “the cage is made of memory.”

He scoffed quietly. “That’s poetic.”

“It’s true.”

A pause.

He didn’t ask why she cared. He had, once. He had asked her why she always came after him, why she tried to comfort something that refused to be consoled. She never gave him a clear answer. Only a soft smile. Only that look, like he reminded her of someone—or something—long gone.

Tonight, he broke the silence. “Do you even know my real name?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Do you?”

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered: a voice calling him in the dark. A name spoken gently before he ever woke in this place. A whisper that sounded like safety.

Hers.