You were never an echo. You were Ecco. Beautiful, sick and terminal. Both of them, always. Blood remembers what the years tried to bury. Twenty-seven. Sixteen. Eleven. Eleven years refused to die with the rest of the years.
Two bodies that should never have touched wore each other’s skin, kissing something ancient and wrong between them, breathing the same forbidden darkness like smoke. What should never have been seen was seen.
Peter Pan was named in the dark.
Neverland was spoken of in quiet hours,
Wendy was whispered, promises were made of staying lost, of finding a way back somehow.
But Wendy grew up. Wendy left. Peter remained, wings heavy with ash. A mirror held up to an open wound. A devotion that only knew how to press harder, running both souls into the ground.
A love in the shadows of a line never meant to cross but crossed anyway, smiling. The roles have turned inside out but the silence still carries the same taste. The wound still does not know whose shadow it belongs to.
© 2026 Thomas Köppen. All Rights Reserved