"The train, it doesn't stop here anymore," she said. I remember her voice, raspy yet soothing, like a forgotten melody. She wore the same blue dress every Sunday, the one that swayed gently in the breeze, a specter capable of tugging at heartstrings sewn long ago."
"You think it was a dream?" a man's voice echoed, sharp as a crack in the ice. "I saw it too. The lighthouse, flickering in the fog. But there was no fog, just us, stranded on this godforsaken road. And when we looked back, it was gone. Just gone."
I asked her once, "Do you remember the smell of the sea?" The question drew a blank stare, perhaps too far back in time. But then she smiled, a wistful, distant smile, as if the ocean's breath swept through her once more. "Some things never leave you," she whispered.
Listen closely, and you might hear them too. The echoes, the murmurs of past lives skirting the edges of perception. Like the sound of wind through long-abandoned corridors, or the creaking of a door that was never opened.
Whisper | Mirror | End Corridor