Have you heard the clock's ticking at 3 a.m.? It's when Adrian speaks in sleep, revealing shadows long buried. But he doesn't know. Or maybe does but forgets by daylight. The attic's wooden beams creak under secrets no longer spoken. Feel that chill?
Last Tuesday, those who passed by the old library reported a voice, high-pitched, like a child telling where to find things lost forgotten books strewn around, scent of damp paper lingers.
Weekend dinners with grandma always the same dishes, same taste remember the times when stories depended on geography not just time, maps unraveled at breakfast pasts intertwining in ways defensible by neither logic nor history books.