Lala’s Mirror

The Word Without Its Echo

When I was a child, I believed every word carried a twin—an unseen double, hiding in silence. I imagined language as a hall of mirrors, every syllable secretly yearning for its reflection. Some reflections were crooked, others blurred, but I was certain that if I reversed my gaze long enough, the hidden twin would reveal itself.

I tested this with paper and ink. I would write a word, then turn it upon itself until it unraveled
into its shadow.

• ~‘STONE’ became ‘ENOTS,’ as though the rock itself had learned to breathe backwards.
• ~‘LALA’ became ‘ALAL,’ a chant that circled endlessly, never moving forward, never ending.
• ~Even ‘SILENCE’—when I tried to catch it—mirrored into silence again, as if it had swallowed its own echo and
  become whole.

I told this secret to Inky once. He laughed at me, the way only children can laugh—sharp, careless, with no thought for the wounds it leaves. He said I was chasing ghosts in letters, that words were dead things, not living mirrors. His laughter stung, but I didn’t argue. Instead, I showed him the board.

The board was simple at first glance: six empty squares carved into wood. Nothing inside them, only hollow frames. But to me, they were more than shapes—they were mouths, waiting to be filled. Hungry mouths, each aching for its other half. When Inky saw it, his laughter died. His eyes followed the lines of the squares, and I saw the change in him. His hand hovered above the wood but did not touch it, as though the emptiness might swallow his fingers whole.

We stood there in silence for a long time. Then, in a voice softer than a whisper, Inky asked me:

What is a word without its echo?

The question struck me like a stone dropped into still water. It rippled outward, filling every corner of me, but it left no answer behind. I opened my mouth, but only silence came, and that silence felt heavier than any sound I could have spoken.

Even now, when I close my eyes, I see those six empty squares waiting. They breathe in the dark, patient and watchful, as if they know something I do not. Perhaps words are not made of letters at all. Perhaps they are made of their reflections. And perhaps the board is not waiting for words, but for me.