Echo
Fortissimo Peak stood against the sky, high above the natural beauty that surrounded it. As scintillating flowers and tall trees grew and died across the ring of fire at its base, and as the world stirred all around it, it simply loomed forever there on the horizon, never changing, never challenged. Many feet of snow blanketed it from top to bottom in the winter; when the summer came, the snow vanished in days, and the sun seared the grey and white bedrock beneath it. Streaks of ash ran grey to black down all its sides through huge gashes in the stone, and flying Pokemon avoided it for the dark, choking clouds that billowed from its top, but for as long as anyone cared to remember, it had never erupted.
To most Pokemon, it seemed so barren that most deemed it not worth trying to explore. But there were landmarks, small details nearly invisible to most, that allowed a brave few to ascend the Peak part of the way and return. Those who did so told vivid stories of what they had heard: music. Unfamiliar songs that tugged at the heartstrings, and familiar songs cast in a whole new light by whatever wind had carried them down the mountain. Many dismissed these stories, but over time, they changed from mouth to mouth, and became incredible rumours.
At the top of the Peak, there lived alone a Pokemon. An old cabin, resting in the stone, had been crumbling there, hidden from view, for a long time. Its inside fared even worse – the furniture sat in heaps, little more than scraps now, vaguely recalling a once grand and beautiful parlour turned to rot. She lived beneath this ruin, which now hid the entrance to her home beneath: a small place, barely more than two rooms, that she knew so well now that she never thought much of its maintenance, or of its layout, or of many other things. She dreamt of, and knew of, and thought of, only one thing: music.
She thought of her music differently from day to day, of course. She thought of choreography one day, and verse the next. If she considered tempo even briefly, it would fill her mind, and it would be all she would think about for days on end. When she finally she cleared her thoughts, she would compose a new song, or refined a centuries-old classic. Then, she would send it away, and hope fervently that the mountain air would carry it to a worthy performer.
Today would be different. The quiet around her was all her ears knew now, and she realized: she understood her music, but it had been long, too long, since she had heard it. She packed only enough for the journey she would take, although she did not need much, and sent her most recent aria away. This time, she would follow it, and hear for herself that her effort had been rewarded.
“Hello. My name is Shou Mei. How do you do?”
She rehearsed that greeting unconsciously. She spoke so quietly that she could barely hear herself in the darkness. It had been a year since she had heard that voice, so long that she wondered if she could call it her own. That wonder blossomed into a great, impenetrable sense of worry, and she forbid herself to speak to herself any more. As she smothered the fear she had once forgotten with the passion that had brought it out, she ascended the ancient steps out of her home, and met the warmth of daylight.
