Underneath the trembling foliage where secrets bleed into the roots of ancient parental roots, lives a memory forgotten, yet eternally clinging to the soil of fear, carefully wrapped in tendrils of night. A sound, perhaps a whisper, fractured the silence; it faded, yet remained.
Memory isn’t made of bricks or sand, it is random, erratic — a streetlight buzz combined with the last fading flick of a shadow coating the walls. Today, it feels alive, thumping just beneath your feet — the gray pavement pulsing like a beating heart.
A girl once stood here, hair knotted from wind’s chaotic dance, eyes flickering at eternity’s edge. Was she just visiting? Was she too one of us, transiting on the delayed hour of doubt? Wouldn’t it be just, if she joined us, a vagrant in this enclave of disturbing light?
This urban ghost town echoes with remnants of laughter, disbelief — icy tendrils of righteous dread that twine around those who wander beyond the festive lights. Each cautionary tale shared over coffee warming trembling hands, masked in grace; each friend a voice in the dark.