Echoes of Us
Verse 1
Where are we going?
We have stumbled down this road
And now here we are
Lost in the echoes of people long gone
Pre-Chorus
Where are we now?
Too afraid to love...
But too close to walk away
Chorus
So take my hand
Take my heart and my life
Because without you I’m just a lonely lost soul
I never meant to fall for you
But even from a distance, you drew me in
Verse 2
I built up these walls just to keep out the light
Convinced that I’m safer alone in the night
But you saw the wreckage and didn't retreat
You found a rhythm in my skipped heartbeats
Now the silence between us is screaming your name
And I know that I’ll never be quite the same
Pre-Chorus
Where are we now?
Too afraid to love...
But too close to walk away
Chorus
So take my hand
Take my heart and my life
Because without you I’m just a lonely lost soul
I never meant to fall for you
But even from a distance, you drew me in
Bridge
Let the echoes fade out, let the past disappear
I��m done looking back, now that you’re standing here
It’s a dangerous road, but I’m ready to fall
If I can’t have you, I want nothing at all
Chorus
So take my hand
Take my heart and my life
Because without you I’m just a lonely lost soul
I never meant to fall for you
But even from a distance, you drew me in
Outro
Yeah, you drew me in
(Just take my hand...)
Lost in the echoes, but I found you.
The slam of a door, the shaking of the wall, and the sound of glass falling to the floor with rhythmic precision. This is the sound of a broken heart.
It counts the seconds in crystalline shards, a metronome of what used to be whole. Each silver splinter finds its place, mapping the tremors she feels in her soul. the echoes of laughter are now a single tear. picking up the pieces of glass every piece a memory, now a single cut remains a crimson reminder of the last moment the world felt fresh and new.
She kissed his cheek, a soft ghost of a gesture, and curled into him. Her head was a steady, warm weight on his chest. John tried to find the rhythm of her breathing, but sleep was a mile away and moving fast. Inside his skull, the memories weren’t thoughts anymore; they were shards of glass, jagged and silver, grinding against each other every time he closed his eyes.
The stories of the dead don’t go quiet just because you win.
He moved with the practiced, oily silence of a man who spent his life not being heard. He slid a pillow into the space where his chest had been—a tactical swap of warmth for cotton—and watched her for a second. She didn't wake. She was safe, in this space, in a world that didn't include knives to the shoulder blade or the smell of cordite.
Outside, the air was a cold slap. Crisp and dry. The night sky was massive, a black ocean salted with stars that didn't care one way or the other about Dave Cohen or Apophis.
He lit a cigarette. The flame was a tiny, violent orange flare in the dark. He exhaled, watching the smoke rings drift into the stillness. They were perfect circles, regulated and precise. They were the only movement for miles. He stood there, a broken man in a 100-percent-broken world, waiting for the glass in his head to stop cutting.
But the glass didn't stop. It just started to form a picture.
He thought of the countless faces—men, women, children—who had been ground into the dirt by Apophis. He thought of Dave Cohen’s laugh. The quiet was no longer a comfort; it was an indictment. The feeling of urgency rushed through him like an adrenaline spike, hot and metallic. He realized then that contentment was a luxury for men who hadn't seen what he had seen.
The fight wasn't a choice. It was the only way to stop the glass from grinding.
In the morning he would thank Cherie and dr Phillips and be on his way.
The Ghost of a Man
He stood there until the cigarette was a dead ember between his fingers. The stars hadn't moved, but he had. The urgency was a steady hum now, a cold engine idling in his chest. He realized then that contentment was a luxury for men who hadn’t seen what he had seen. For men who didn't have the dead sitting at their table every time they sat down to eat.
The fight wasn’t a choice. It was the only way to stop the glass from grinding.
When the sun finally began to bleed over the horizon, turning the sky the color of a fresh bruise, he went back inside. He moved like a shadow through the quiet house.
In the morning, he would find the right words. He would thank Cherie for the warmth and Dr. Phillips for the repairs. He would be polite, and he would be grateful, and then he would be gone. There would be no explanation of "John," no stories of the cook from Scranton, no mention of the life he was trying to reclaim.
To them, he would always be William. A man made of scars and silence who had appeared out of the dark, stayed just long enough to heal, and then vanished back into the smoke.
He looked at Cherie one last time, still asleep under the tactical weight of the pillow. She had loved William, or at least the idea of him. But William was a man built for the road and the dark. He didn't belong in the light of an ordinary morning. He belonged to the faces in the glass.
He began to pack, his hands moving with the steady, rhythmic precision of a man preparing for a long winter.
this is where the shards of glass came from
@ProRightMemes Eye for an eye comes from a book written by people far smarter than you peer mediation dumb asses so yeah im gonna give my children the right ideals and if thats a problem then yeah I dont really care and never asked for your opinion so have a nice day