You ever notice how quiet it gets after something breaks?

The noise doesn’t vanish. It lingers. It stretches across the air like a memory that refuses to die.

That’s what an echo is; the sound of what once was, repeating until it forgets what it meant in the first place.

And lately, Arcadia’s been full of echoes. Of beauty. Of vengeance. Of death.

Of all the things we keep pretending don’t define us.

You, Narcissa, are the loudest of them all. You call it art. You call it design. But I’ve heard the hollow in your voice when you speak about perfection.

It’s not inspiration. It’s fear.

You echo the woman you once were; the one who believed that control could make her untouchable.

You don’t create beauty anymore; you just chase it in circles, hoping that if you can hear your own voice loud enough, it’ll drown out the truth.

But beauty that needs applause is already dying. And when the noise fades, you’ll find out what silence sounds like.

It’s not peace, Narcissa. It’s me.

And Peter…

You call yourself The Night because you can’t stand the light that followed you home. Every step you take still rings with the sound of that night that made you what you are.

You say you want vengeance, but what you really want is proof that your pain meant something. You want the world to echo it back to you, to tell you that the violence was worth it, that the monster you became wasn’t born for nothing.

But vengeance isn’t an answer, Peter. It’s a loop. You keep screaming into the dark and mistaking the echo for affirmation.

You say I’m a monster; maybe you’re right. But I’ve stopped listening to my echo.

You still live in yours.

And Tombstone. The Ferryman.

Every life that crosses your path becomes another sound in your endless dirge.

You’ve built your eternity out of echoes. Every toll, every whisper, every “departed soul” you claim is just your way of pretending you’re part of something divine.

But the truth is simpler. You don’t guide them. You keep their voices in your head.

Because even you can’t bear the silence when they’re gone.

All three of you… you’re just echoes wearing flesh.

Each one of you repeating what broke you, mistaking the sound for truth.

Perfection. Vengeance. Salvation. Different words. Same noise.

And me? I’m the one who finally learned to stop shouting back.

I’m not the echo anymore. I’m the silence that ends it.

I’m going to take what’s left of your voices and make them mine.

When you speak, I’ll speak louder.

When you reach, I’ll rise higher.

When you fall, the silence that follows won’t belong to you.

Because that’s what happens when echoes meet their source.

They fade. They die. They give way to the thing that made them.

Call me sinner. Call me monster.

You can call me anything you want.

But when it’s over, when the dust settles and the last sound fades, there won’t be Narcissa’s schemes, or Night’s vengeance, or Tombstone’s toll.

There’ll only be one sound left in the air…

Silence.