Echo

Input.
One input: a phrase you type. A few words, a name, a fragment — anything short enough to hold in a breath. Nothing else adjusts.

Transformation.
The letters are hashed into a seed that authors a flow field across purple paper. A thousand walkers wander the field for twelve seconds, laying ink only where their paths cross. Same phrase, same echo, always — denser the more thought it carries. A new phrase, a new pour, never repeated. A caption records the seed hash and the density mark.

Note.
An echo is what comes back to you when you speak — the same sound, delayed and shaped by the space it crossed. Echo is what comes back when you type. The phrase is hashed into a seed, and a thousand walkers trace its return, laying ink only where their paths cross. Same phrase, same echo, always; no two phrases return alike. What comes back is not the phrase but the shape it took returning.