The clock ticked. But it wasn’t the clock; it was something deeper, hidden under layers of forgotten dust and whispers. Each tick echoed a story, a laugh, a tear shed on worn-out wood. How long has it been?
She found it on a Tuesday—though days had begun to lose their meaning—a scrap of paper, yellowed and curling at the edges. Words scrawled in blue ink followed by an angel's silhouette. "You were destined to fly," it read. Who wrote it? More importantly, who was it meant for?
Memories flickered like old film reels, frames out of sync, some half-cut, others lost forever. There was a boy playing with a wooden sword, a girl spinning in a dust-lit room, their laughter echoing across the empty page. Forgotten, but never gone.
The shadows danced in the corners, like erratic pulses of consciousness, begging to be seen, heard, understood. Yet, they remained mute, drifting through time, holding secrets, embracing silence.
You can never really forget, they say. Even if the names fade, the faces blur, the essence remains, like an unspoken promise. But who remembers the angels?
Find more whispers of the past here or trace the paths of those forgotten there.