No one remembered when the portal appeared. Not even him.He’d been a cartographer once—just a man, worn boots and ink-stained fingers, sketching maps of forgotten mountain passes. But one night, deep in the Valley of Still Winds, a shimmer in the air flickered before him like a tear in the skin of the world. He touched it. And fell through.On the other side was a city of glass that floated in the sky, where people had no mouths and spoke in thoughts. They saw him and knelt, whispering in silent awe—The One Who Walks Between. They gave him a name he no longer remembers.Each world since has shaped him—burned him, worshipped him, feared him.In the third world, beneath twin suns, he learned magic. Not the kind from tales, but raw, pulsing truth that hummed through the bones of the earth. It twisted time around him, slowed his aging to a trickle. He watched centuries pass, grew wiser, crueler, kinder—depending on who told the tale.Some worlds welcomed him as a god. Some hunted him as a demon. In one, they locked him in a prison of dreams, only for him to wake centuries later, the bars rusted away by time.Now he walks still, through burning forests and crystal oceans, always chasing the next doorway, trying to remember what he was originally looking for.He has forgotten his real name.But the worlds call him Echo—because everywhere he goes, legends follow.