As night fell, the air thickened, carrying whispers that bounced off the walls. They weren’t the words of the living. These were the forgotten names, left behind in drawers, buried beneath the floorboards, entangled in the dust. Sometimes, if you listened closely enough, you could hear them tell stories of lives not yet lived, futures not yet written. The hum was a low, untraceable sound, pulling at the corners of memories you never had but somehow knew.
The Moonlight That Wasn't Quite Light
Moonlight flooded the room, but it wasn’t as it appeared. It didn’t illuminate—no, it was alive, moving, sliding over surfaces like a thing with its own will. The light twisted into shapes you didn’t recognize but understood. It hinted at something older than time itself. The night was always an enigma, but tonight, it was more—an invitation. You could walk into the light, follow it, but never know where it would lead, and never return the same.
Sometimes we forget the names that matter most—ours.
The Shadow That Forgot Its Name
Shadows stretched, far longer than usual. They hung in the air like loose threads, too long, too eager to follow. People walked past, unaware of their stretching. One woman stopped, caught her own shadow inching towards her. “You don’t belong here,” she whispered. The shadow paused, then whispered back, “I don’t remember who I am.” It flickered, uncertain, before following the others again.
