Preface

Preface

**Echoes of the Hollow Sky**

Writer’s Note

If you’re holding this, thank you. I wrote *Echoes of the Hollow Sky* for readers who need a quieter room and a story that keeps its promises.

This book is about grief and gentleness. It’s also about practice. The lead once spoke to storms. Now he counts to four before he speaks at all. He learns the same way most of us do - by trying, messing up, apologizing without a speech, and trying again.

Three rules shape this world and the people in it:

1. **Noise without consent is violence.** 2. **Every sound must earn its silence.** 3. **To remain unheard is the highest courtesy.**

You’ll feel those rules everywhere - at the market, in kitchens, in the church tower. When a bell rings, it’s because a room agreed to hear it. Sometimes the bell answers late. That lateness matters. Waiting is part of the music here.

What you’ll find:

- Clear, dialog-forward scenes. - Ordinary acts that carry weight: oiling a guide wheel, asking first, washing a pan, leaving space. - A love story built by repeatable kindness rather than spectacle. - Bells that sometimes refuse to be impressive-and are better for it.

How to read this (suggestions, not rules):

- Take your time. Short pauses help the scenes keep their shape. - When a character counts to four, try it with them once. - You can read straight through, or a chapter a night. Let the last line sit a moment before you move on.

Music: there’s a sibling album with the same title. You don’t need it to follow the book.

About me: I’m the head writer and showrunner for *Ashen Veil*. My job is to keep the rooms steady and the heart honest. I work with a small team across words, music, and visuals. We argue softly, fix what we can, and leave a little space for the late note to arrive.

A small content note: the story touches grief, panic, guilt, and restraint. There’s no graphic violence.

If this book meets you on a hard day, I hope it gives you a steadier pace. If it meets you on a good day, I hope it makes you curious about how you hold space for others. Either way, thank you for the hours you’re giving these pages.

Count first. Ring once. Let the late note be part of the song.

- *Veniixx*

Chapter 0 - Before

I wake in a small room. It’s quiet.

Rain taps the window. A red light on the kettle blinks. My mouth tastes like ash. I sit up. The sheet is rough. The air smells like soap and dust.

On the table: a chipped bowl, two envelopes, a folded city map. Inside the bowl is a bronze key with a bell-shaped head. I don’t remember picking it up, but it feels familiar. I turn it in my fingers. It’s warm. Somewhere behind my ribs, a tight place shifts, like a rope being tested.

I breathe and count: one, two, three, four. I keep my hands still. I let the room stay quiet before I add anything to it. I repeat the rules I wrote down somewhere, the ones I’m trying to live by now:

**Noise without consent is violence.** **Every sound must earn its silence.** **To remain unheard is the highest courtesy.**

The kettle clicks off. I pour hot water over a tea bag. The steam fogs the glass. I wipe a circle clear with my sleeve and meet my own eyes. I look tired. Older than I remember being. Weathered, but not dangerous.

“Name,” I say, or try to.

Nothing comes. The word sits in my mouth and doesn’t move. That’s fine. Maybe it shouldn’t jump when I snap my fingers.

I lift the bell-key again. A faint ring runs through my hand. I’m not sure if I hear it or feel it. My fingers tap four notes on the table-sol, la, do, fa. I don’t know where I learned that pattern. It feels right, so I let it be.

I dress. The floorboards creak. I open the window. I hear tires on wet pavement, someone coughing, a bicycle bell far away. I stand there and listen, counting under my breath.

On the counter, there’s a note in my handwriting:

> **Count to four before speaking. > Don’t buy awe. > Hold the room steady. > Try again.**

I let out one short laugh. Not big. Just honest.

I put the bell-key and the map in my pocket. On the back of the map, a market square is stamped in purple ink. Someone circled a church and drew a short line next to it that looks like a rope. The pencil mark is worn into the paper. I feel the urge to go there. I don’t push it. I ask the morning first.

I leave my room and pull the door almost closed, then stop. I leave it open by a finger’s width. “If I forget the way back, this gap can help,” I say. It’s a strange habit, but it calms me.

The hallway smells like paper. A radio murmurs through a wall. I pass a pair of shoes on a mat and head downstairs. The ground-floor door sticks. I press my palm to it and wait. The wood shifts. It opens.

Outside, the street is wet and quiet. Tents cover the market stalls. A bus pulls up and exhales. I try a safe word -“today”- and hear it land without trouble.

At the square, vendors set out boxes. Posters peel from a board. A kid kicks a bottle cap and grins when it pings against the curb. On one table, tall candles show saints with wrong names. One looks like me, but not exactly. The label is close to my old name and still wrong. I leave it alone.

The church door leans on tired hinges. I push it open. Dust rises and settles. The bell rope hangs from the ceiling. My hands know what to do before my head does.

I pull once. Nothing. I pull again, gentler. The bell gives a short, rough sound and stops. I feel the old urge to force it, make it ring loud, make it obey. I breathe and let that urge pass. If the sound comes late, it comes late. If it doesn’t, that’s an answer too.

I sit in the last pew. I count: one, two, three, four. My shoulders loosen. I can live this way. I can try.

A swallow perches near the bell mouth. It watches me. I watch it back. We stay like that for a while. There’s a peace in not fixing anything.

I step outside. Rain slows to a mist. Someone waits on the steps, a woman in a brown rain jacket, holding a paper cup. She meets my eyes without flinching.

“You okay?” she asks.

I think about all the answers I used to give, big ones that changed the weather. I choose a small one.

“I’m learning,” I say.

She nods once. “Good lesson.”

She offers the second cup. I hadn’t seen it. “Tea?”

“Please,” I say. The word feels clean.

We stand under the eave and drink. The map rustles in my pocket. The bell-key taps my leg. My fingers find the four-note pattern again - sol, la, do, fa - barely there. I don’t try to make it more. I let it sit.

Back at my building, I leave the door open the same finger-width. If a name finds me tonight, it has a clear way in. If it doesn’t, I’ll hold the space and wait.

I set the bell-key on the table. I rest my hand next to it. I don’t try to bless it or claim it. I’m just here.

The kettle sings. Right on time. That’s enough for today.