Jane sat in the old wooden chair by the window. Sunlight streamed through dusty panes, drawing rectangles on the floor. She had not spoken for hours—not since the phone call that seemed to drain the room of color. Yet, she wasn't lonely. There were memories, like spirits, dancing just out of reach.
Sometimes they came as whispers. A breeze would brush against her arm, a phantom touch, though the air was still. Other times, they spoke in echoes—rumblings of a conversation long past, leaving words suspended in velvet silence.
There was a time when she would chase these echoes. Follow their trails, mapping them with gestures and sighs. But now she let them come to her, to unveil fragments of a narrative she almost recognized.
Today, one story played on a loop—the sound of her mother hums, a lullaby wrapped in the love only a parent knows. Another, the laughter shared with friends broken suddenly by an unseen hand.