MAYBE NOT @swordxhearted dec 2022
sometimes, she lets the ghosts roam.
a gate opens, the memories flow. thin then wide, rivers weaving into the widening maw of the ocean. the ache never really leaves—the stinging at skin, salt burn of a gaping wound. as she breathes through the ache of it in-out, out-in, one-two-three, wren considers it a small mercy. it ought to feel worse than this.
(she deserves that much.)
it's only ever at night she thinks of them. it's easier that way. each and every face, solemn and unblemished by time in spite of its long passing. they all share that seeking stare, as if they're searching for something. answers she doesn't have, to questions that she does.
relief only ever comes at sunrise. at the first sign of daylight, they break apart and dissolve into nothingness.
the mornings after are no different, for better or worse. she seeks her shoes, the lock of the door, and open air. at this time, there's no one else. there shouldn't be.
so when she sees the silhouette in the distance, it has her take pause. each step closer breaks the haze of the figure's outline. the back of their head, span of the shoulders—every detail falling into place so startingly clear in a way it near knocks the wind out of her.
it should be impossible. there's no reason for it to be otherwise.
and yet—
"...doseok?"