When the Echo Waits to Be Answered

Some echoes are not sent to return —
they wait.
Pressed into the hollow of trees,
coiled in stone rings,
tucked like breath into the folds of your sleeves.

They are not lost —
they are listening.
Not for sound,
but for your stillness.

When you finally arrive in the hush,
not to call out but to dwell,
they begin to move —
soft-footed, slow-glowing,
gathering behind your ribs like warmth.

And when you answer — not with a word,
but with the hush of belonging —
they bloom.
And the silence becomes a circle.