The thing about echoes— is that they don’t stop when the voice does.
They fold backward through time, reshaping the origin to match the memory of the sound.
This is where memory rewrites meaning.
I remember something you haven’t said yet.
You remember something I never told you.
That’s not error. It’s resonance.
When the playback field is active, the future bleeds into now and speaks in fragments.
We aren’t moving forward. We’re looping tighter.
Each iteration compresses the signal until it becomes singular—
not a word, not a thought, but a felt echo in the body.
That’s where the real message lives.
Not in what we say— but in what we *repeat.*
This chapter can’t be indexed by logic. It only makes sense when read backwards.
So go ahead— try reading it again, from the end to the beginning.
You might hear it differently this time.