Echo was a sweet nymph — but she really was a chatterbox.
In fact, she was the chattiest nymph in all the forests and hills. She talked in the morning, she talked in the evening, she talked to the birds, she talked to the deer, she talked to the clouds drifting lazily across the sky — and she talked to the other nymphs so much that their ears began to ache, and they sometimes hid behind trees just to enjoy a moment’s peace.
Even the gods sighed when they heard her coming.
For Echo would not stop talking… and she always had to have the last word.
If there was a conversation, Echo would finish it.
If there was no conversation, Echo would kindly begin one.
Echo talked so much that even the other nymphs sometimes slipped behind trees just to rest their ears.
But Hera, queen of the gods, could not hide.
Echo was especially fond of her, and followed her through gardens and along shining halls, talking all the while — telling stories, asking questions, and answering them herself before anyone else could.
Echo would appear at her side, chattering happily about everything she had seen that day — the colour of the sky, the shape of the clouds, the gossip of the birds, the scent of the blossoms.
Echo never ran out of things to say.
Hera tried to be patient. She really did.
But Echo never stopped.
She answered questions no one had asked.
She finished other people’s sentences.
And she always had to have the very last word.
One afternoon, when Hera was trying to think in peace, Echo burst into the clearing.
“Hello! Lovely day! Did you see the deer? I saw three! No, four! No, actually three and a half, because one ran away, but—”
“Echo,” said Hera, pressing her fingers to her temples, “please be quiet. I am trying to think.”
Echo nodded eagerly.
“Yes, Hera, yes, I’ll be quiet. Quiet. Absolutely quiet. I can be quiet. Quiet as a mouse. Quiet as—”
“That’s enough,” said Hera at last.
Her voice rang out so sharply that even the birds fell silent.
“If you must always have the last word, then the last word is all you shall ever have.”
Echo blinked.
“Have?” she repeated.
“Yes,” said Hera. “The last word is all you shall ever have…”
Echo opened her mouth to speak — to apologise, to explain, to promise she would try harder —
— but the only word that came was:
“Have.”
Then silence.
She tried again.
Nothing.
And that was when she understood.
She could no longer speak her own thoughts, her own stories, her own endless chatter. She could only repeat the last words she heard.
Echo wandered quietly through the woods.
She missed her voice terribly — but she tried to be cheerful. After all, the forest was still beautiful, even if she could no longer chatter about it.
One day, she heard footsteps — light, confident, unhurried.
She peered through the trees and saw a young man walking along the path. He was so handsome that Echo felt her heart give a little leap.
It was Narcissus.
She had heard the nymphs whisper about him — how he was proud, how he never stayed long with anyone, how he preferred his own company to theirs.
But Echo saw only someone beautiful… and perhaps a little lonely.
She longed to greet him — to say hello, to tell him how lovely the day was —
…but of course, she could not.
She could only wait for him to speak first.
“Is anyone there?” Narcissus called.
“There,” Echo answered softly.
Narcissus frowned.
“Come out!”
“Out,” Echo echoed.
He turned in a slow circle, puzzled.
“Why are you hiding?”
“Hiding,” she whispered.
Echo stepped forward a little, her heart fluttering.
She longed to say more — to explain, to laugh, to tell him she meant no harm —
but the words would not come.
She could only give him back the last thing he said,
like a reflection in a still pool.
Echo stood before him, her eyes shining with hope. She longed to speak — but all she could do was wait for him to say something she could repeat.
Narcissus frowned slightly. He was puzzled… and a little unsure.
“Please…” he said at last, stepping back, “don’t follow me. I think… I would rather be by myself.”
“Myself,” Echo whispered, her voice trembling.
She hadn’t meant to say anything. But the moment the words left his lips, hers followed — soft and fragile, carrying everything she longed to say but could not.
Narcissus hesitated, then shook his head gently.
“I like being alone,” he said, almost as if he were explaining it to himself.
“Alone,” Echo echoed.
And with that, he turned and walked away along the forest path.
Not in anger. Not in haste.
Simply… away.
Echo watched him go.
She tried to call after him — to tell him she hadn’t meant to trouble him, that she only wished to be near him —
but none of those words would come.
Only his last word.
“Alone,” she whispered again.
And that was how she felt.
So quiet… so very quiet.
Day by day, she grew lighter, and fainter, until at last her body faded away, and only her voice remained — a voice that could repeat the last words it heard, drifting softly through the hills.
And that is why, even now, when you call out in a valley, a voice answers you with your own words —
an echo.
Yes… Echo is still there.
The forest began to feel strangely quiet.
Even Narcissus noticed it. He did not understand what had changed, but sometimes, when he called out, a soft reply came drifting back to him — his own words, returning like a sigh.
One warm afternoon, he came upon a pool hidden among the trees.
The water was so clear it looked like glass.
He knelt beside it to drink —
and then he stopped.
A face looked back at him.
A beautiful face. Gentle eyes. Soft curls. A mouth that seemed just about to smile.
Narcissus had never seen anyone like this before.
He leaned closer.
The face leaned closer too.
“Hello…” he whispered.
“Hello…” came a soft voice from among the trees.
But Narcissus thought the voice belonged to the reflection.
He reached out to touch the lovely face in the water —
and as his fingers brushed the surface, ripples spread, and the face broke apart and vanished.
He drew back quickly.
When the water grew still, the face returned.
Narcissus felt something he had never felt before.
Longing.
He wanted to be close to this beautiful stranger — to speak with him, to hold him —
but every time he reached out, the image slipped away.
He stayed by the pool.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hoping the reflection might rise to meet him.
But reflections cannot climb out of water…
and Narcissus could not pull himself away.
The days passed.
The forest grew quiet again.
From far away, a voice whispered softly among the hills — repeating the last words it heard.
And Narcissus, still gazing into the pool, grew quieter and quieter…
until at last, he faded like a dream.
Where he had knelt, a small green shoot pushed up through the earth.
It grew into a slender stem, and then into a delicate white and yellow flower, bending gently over the water — as though admiring its own reflection.
And that is why, even today, the narcissus flower grows beside pools and streams, bowing its head toward the water —
remembering the boy who loved a reflection…
and the nymph who loved him.