The final verse came not in dreams, but in silence.
Sela had spent weeks learning the old songs—the ones Luna had painted into memory, the ones Elias had found buried in forgotten journals, the ones Marina whispered like prayers by firelight. Each carried a piece of the town's past, each bound to a moment that refused to be lost entirely.
But this one—this last song—it was different.
It didn't come with wind or water.
It came with stillness.
She felt it first while painting near the cliffs, her brush hovering over the canvas as if waiting for something unseen. The air around her grew heavy, not with pressure, but with presence . A weight not of body, but of history pressing close.
Then the sea stilled.
Not just calm—but silent , as though it were holding its breath.
And from somewhere deep within the tide pool chamber, a single note rang out.
Clear.
Unbroken.
Calling.
Sela dropped her brush.
She ran.
By the time she reached the cave entrance, the sky had darkened despite the early hour. Clouds swirled above the cliffs like ink spilled across water. She didn't hesitate. She knew where the song was leading her.
Inside, the pools shimmered with an eerie glow, their reflections no longer showing moments of the past, but possibilities of the future. Some showed her mother standing before a new canvas, eyes bright with purpose. Others showed Elias walking through the town square, speaking to people who had once feared remembering.
One showed Marina, older now, smiling at a child who looked like a younger version of Sela.
And one showed her .
Standing at the gate.
Alone.
The pendant at her throat pulsed.
She pressed forward.
At the center of the chamber, beneath the largest pool, stood the frame—the one that had once held Luna's prophecy painting. It was empty now, waiting.
Waiting for her .
She stepped closer.
A voice rose from the depths—not loud, not threatening, but full of knowing.
"You have learned the songs," it said.
"Now you must sing your own."
Sela swallowed hard.
"I don't know the words."
"They are already inside you."
She closed her eyes.
And listened.
Not to the sea. Not to the echoes of the Rememberers past.
To herself.
And then, slowly, she began to sing.
The melody was unlike any she had heard before—neither sorrowful nor joyful, but both. A song of remembrance and release, of holding on and letting go. Of being seen without being consumed.
The chamber trembled.
The pools rippled.
The walls hummed with recognition.
The final lines formed not in thought, but in feeling:
"I am the echo of what was lost,
The thread that binds the world we've crossed.
I carry light through shadowed days,
And guide the past through winding ways.
Let me remember.
Let me forget.
Let me shape what time won't keep.
For I am the Songkeeper.
And my story is not yet complete."
The moment the final word left her lips, the chamber glowed .
Light poured from every surface, filling the space until it was impossible to tell where the walls ended and the sky began. The gate, hidden beyond the veil of memory, flickered into view—its edges shimmering like heat rising off stone.
But this time, it did not open.
Instead, it waited .
Sela opened her eyes.
The voice returned, softer now.
"You have chosen your path."
"You will walk between worlds."
"Neither fully of the past…"
"…nor fully of the present."
"You will remember when others forget."
"And when the time comes…"
"…you will choose again."
The light faded.
The chamber settled.
The pools dimmed.
And the pendant at her throat cooled.
She turned.
Luna, Elias, and Marina stood at the edge of the chamber, watching her with expressions filled with awe, pride, and something deeper—understanding.
"You did it," Luna whispered.
Sela shook her head. "I'm just beginning."
Back at the house, the storm had passed.
Dawn broke over the sea, casting golden light across the rooftops of the town. The people below would wake soon, unaware of what had transpired beneath the cliffs. But they would feel it.
Something had shifted.
The past no longer clung so tightly.
The present breathed easier.
And the future?
That was still being written.
In paint.
In song.
In memory.
Sela stood at the attic window, her brush in hand, the silver pendant resting against her chest.
She looked down at the blank canvas before her.
And smiled.
Because for the first time, she knew exactly what to paint.