Whispers Beyond The Veil
The sound was like the rustling of leaves but not leaves. More metallic. Shadowy whispers danced on the edges of perception, curling like smoke. Time slipped, like a thief, in the depth of night.
My head was a cluttered attic, thoughts strewn about like forgotten toys. Pieces of conversations caught here and there: "When the sky inked," she said, and the rest was lost in the wind.
The chair creaked under the weight of untold stories. A broken clock ticked, or maybe it didn't. Tick, tick, static, then silence. The eyes of the room were made of glass, or they weren't there at all.
A door appeared, or maybe it had always been there, forgotten in the attic of this mind. I opened it, realizing it wasn't a door but a window, looking out at nothing.
Laughter echoed in the distance, a child's laughter. Chasing shadows in the park, hand in hand with ghosts. I blinked—gone. Just the wind, like whispers, over the inked sky.