It was in the soft hours of twilight that Emma first noticed how the streetlights flickered more often on Walker Avenue, as if hesitant to embrace the fullness of night. Each glow cast a dim halo, illuminating only the edges of shadows, revealing just enough of what lurked past comfort.
In those quiet evenings, Emma felt like an echo herself, retracing steps laid down long before her time, threads of silver weaving between the lives interlocked in this familiar landscape. The stories—unctuous memories wrapped in layers of realization—had to be remembered now, had to ripple through once more.
Later that week, she met Caleb at the coffee shop, his voice a familiar timber that balanced the electric hum in the air. Together they bought faded maps and lost themselves in passages of history too grand for their momentary page.