6. Blue pony, Golden cursive

"What's this doing here?" I ask, approaching the swing as if in a trance, my fingers reaching out to trace the sticker. Just touching it stirs something deep inside me—a memory I haven't thought about in ages.

"Hm?" Echo murmurs, following my gaze. "Oh, this," he says. "It's a relic from the past. It's here because it belongs."

My eyebrows knit together, but the initial discomfort in my chest eases as I recall Echo's earlier explanation: this place, the dreamscape, is built from my subconscious. Memories are part of it.

There are three main types of memory—conscious, subconscious, and unconscious. Conscious memory includes the things we are actively aware of and can recall deliberately. Typically, these don't appear in dreams unless you're lucid, able to manipulate and shift your dreams based on your memories.

Subconscious memory is trickier—it's information stored in our brains that we aren't actively thinking about but that influences our behavior and reactions. It's probably what made me remember Echo, even when I thought I shouldn't have known him at all. His existence was already embedded in my mind like a hidden code waiting to be uncovered.

Then there's the memory I've just unlocked—a dark horse lurking so deep that only specific triggers can bring it to the surface. It's not just something we don't actively think about; we subconsciously suppress it, trying to banish it from our system. But it never truly disappears. Sometimes it returns to haunt us, seeking any opening in our mind to resurface, like in dreams. That's what Echo means. Unwanted relics of the past don't just die. They're always inside us.

"Right," I say, shaking my head. "Of course, it belongs. What I mean is… why is it here now?"

Echo shrugs and walks around the swing to join me. He looks at the sticker, and after I pull my hand away, he reaches out to trace its delicate lines. In the real world, that sticker should have long since fallen off the metal due to all the rain, wind, and countless other children it must have encountered since I placed it there years ago. But this isn't just my imagination. It was real—this leg, this swing, the scent of cotton candy in the air, the whole park. It's just that it got replicated here, in this dream. I don't want to think about why, but I can't help it. Echo's reaction doesn't make it easier.

"You asking me about that?" he asks, glancing at me from under his thick, dark lashes. "As I said, it's your subconscious, not mine."

I pause, absorbing his words. I haven't shared some things with anyone, not even Camilla, my closest friend. We've been through a lot together, but we haven't really talked about my problems in depth. I didn't want to. She knows in general that my mother was disturbed, but not the extent of the feelings I have for her.

But Echo… Echo's not a man. He's either not real or some being from another realm here to help me. Logically, I could spill my heart out to him. But… can I?

I look at the sticker again, my mind flashing back to the day I put it there. It was a sunny afternoon, just like today, full of laughter and carefree joy. That was the first and last time I felt that way. It was also the last time I was at this park, the last time I decided to give hope a chance.

"I was here with my mother," I say finally, sitting on the swing. Echo takes a place next to the other leg, leaning against the metal and looking at me with curious eyes. "I was a kid back then."

He nods slowly, his head tilting to the side. Something about the way he does that makes the back of my mind tingle, so I stop speaking, narrowing my eyes at him. Then it hits me.

"You already know all this," I murmur, more to myself than to him. I lift my hands in the air and scoff. "We're in my head, so of course you know that."

Echo watches me quietly, his expression unreadable, then a soft smile spreads across his face. Seeing his dimples now is the last thing I want.

"Oh, come on," he says finally. "Stop being so hung up on it. Knowing your memories and knowing you are two completely different things. Besides…" He shrugs again. "Whatever you want to say, it's only my job to hear you out."

I bristle. "Your job? That doesn't sound tedious at all." Sarcasm drips from my words. Being considered his job is the last thing I want.

"You're really too self-conscious for how much you have to offer," he quips back, coming over and gripping the metal rods of my swing. He starts walking backward, elevating me into the air. All I can do is hang on.

"Meaning?" I ask, my breath quickening with the swing's ascent.

He notices my reaction. I could swear his eyes flick briefly to my lips. It's only for a moment, like a fleeting shadow cast by a cloud on a windy day. Then, he's looking into my eyes again, his gaze devoid of any apparent desire, and I have to swallow hard against the tightness in my abdomen.

"Meaning you're an incredible woman, through and through," he says, his voice firm and gentle. "I've seen your lowest moments, whether you like it or not. That was part of the deal when you sat in that circle with your friend and called me for help. I've seen you, and I chose to help you."

I shake my head, unsure of what to say.

"But the things that I..." I start, my words dying in my throat. The shame is overwhelming, like black, poisoned vines wrapped around me. I'm a slave to them, unable to speak.

"You're scared, I get it," Echo interrupts. "It's normal. Fear is what makes you human, you know?"

The hairs on my neck stand as he lifts me high, higher than a safe swing. A whimper escapes my lips. He tightens his grip on the swing's rods just enough to steady the motion but doesn't lower me immediately. He lets the moment stretch out, with the ground uncomfortably far below.

And just as he lets go, I feel something break inside me. Like the speed of the swing, I let go of the burning inside and decide to tell this man, my protector, the thing I'm so scared to admit. I put my feet on the ground, slowing the swing, and take a deep breath.

"I came here with my mom once," I start again. "Back then, I was just a kid, though it didn't feel like it. My dad was gone, and my mom raised me by herself, but in many ways, I was more of a stability to her than she was to me."

Echo remains silent, his gaze fixed on me as he listens. His stillness seems to draw the background further away. There's no more scent of cotton candy, no warmth of the sun on my skin. It's just me, him, and my memories.

"Coming here was..." I pause, the memories flooding back sharply, "bittersweet. It was the only time I saw her act like other mothers. She was clean off alcohol. She seemed like she cared. Then it all broke, and she got sick again. The kind of sick where you start counting days, not years. We never came back to this park. It was just back to the darkness of our home and fear. Lots of fear."

I swing slightly, the motion almost imperceptible, as if the gentle sway could soothe the ache building with each word.

"I put that sticker there," I gesture towards the swing's leg, "on one of the only good days we had. She said it was a new chapter for us. She promised to never go back to the bottle again."

I taste acid as I try to continue. "But, you know, many stories like these end with the parent's death," I say, squeezing my eyes shut. "Mine doesn't. This fight my mother had with herself lasted for years. Then, one day, I just couldn't take it anymore."

"Right," Echo says, coming closer. I hear the crunch of the sand as he walks towards me. Then he does something unexpected. He drops to his knees in front of me, stopping the swing and cupping my face with his hand. "Because you were scared of her."

When he wipes away a tear, I realize I didn't even know I was crying. I nod slowly, guilt eating me up from the inside.

"I was scared of her right up until the end," I admit. "Whenever I saw her awake at night, I started to tremble. If I was alone in my room, I'd lock the door and leave the key in, just in case she tried to get in with a kitchen knife. Whenever she cried... I braced myself for maniacal laughter to follow. So, I ran. I left her. I abandoned the mother I had promised to stay with forever."

Echo's hand remains steady on my face, his touch grounding me as I navigate through the feelings my confession brings. When I open my eyes, I find a softness in his that doesn't falter, even as the raw intensity of my emotions thickens the air between us.

His words ring in my head… "I know everything there is to know about you. And guess what? I still like you."

How can he? How can anyone like me with the baggage I carry? The pain I've hoarded, the grudges I still hold, the dark thoughts that sometimes consume me... I'm not a good person. I'm tainted.

Escaping was my only option to escape the pain. But in doing so, I found a new kind of torment, just as relentless as the one I left behind. My own conscience punishes me.

"You were hurt," Echo says, gently lifting my chin. "She was hurting you."

"I ran," I say, the word like a curse. He, this mysterious man I barely know, nods once, a sharp, serious gesture devoid of any smiles.

"And you did the right thing," he responds. "As a child, you should have been loved, cherished, wanted."

My chest tightens, and my limbs tremble. Echo's words stir a whirlwind of emotions within me. His reassurance clashes with my heavy guilt, each battling for control inside me.

Maybe that's why the sky turns gray, the sun hiding from me. It feels like I don't deserve its warmth anymore.

"Listen to me, Claire," he says, pinching my chin gently to keep me from looking away. "Running away isn't a bad thing. You call the darkness in your heart a flaw. I call it a scar that makes you beautiful."

His words hit deeper than I expected. Something inside me shifts, fracturing into a million pieces, then somehow begins to mend. As I look into his eyes, I see not just a supernatural protector but a reflection of my deepest fears and hopes—recognition that they matter. I matter.

This is… This being right here. He's not rejecting me. He embraces me. I feel his warmth.

"But what about the guilt?" I ask, my voice a whisper against the growing wind. "It claws at me. It tells me I failed her by leaving."

He stares at me, his metallic cobalt eyes fitting perfectly with the storm behind him. Despite the rumble from the sky, his voice is clear.

"You didn't. She failed you," he says earnestly. "Deep inside, you tell yourself otherwise, but that's the truth."

"Right," I murmur, hanging my head low.

"But we can leave all that behind now."

His words sink in, and I find myself leaning toward him, his gaze locking me in place.

"How?" I ask, the air charged with anger and turbulence, like lightning. I breathe it in, feeling it energize every cell of my body.

In this moment, I let go of everything and decide to follow Echo, wherever he leads, away from this torment.

Didn't he already help me sleep? I can trust him. I know I can...

"By running away together," he says simply, a sheepish smile breaking through. The storm behind him quiets. The wind stops howling, and the smell of cotton candy returns. "There's so much more to dreams than bad memories and healing. Let me show you wonders, Claire. Let's fight those scary shadows together, hm?"

My hesitation lingers like the dark clouds above, but his words promise relief from the weight I've carried alone for so long. I nod slowly, my decision solidifying because of how he looks at me. Like I'm his treasure.

Something forms between us. A pact that transforms me.

"Okay," I breathe out. "Let's run."

And then Echo stands, offering his hand with a grace that belies his power. This time, I don't hesitate. I take it and grip it hard, waiting for him to take me away from here.

And he does.