The morning doesn't announce itself. It slips in quietly, through the half-open curtains, brushing against my skin like a question I can't answer. The room smells of dust and forgotten nights, and for a moment, I feel the weight of every yesterday pressing down.
On the floor, a folded piece of paper catches my eye. I don't remember leaving it there. Its edges are worn, the handwriting familiar, and yet… distant, as if it belongs to someone else. I pick it up carefully. A memory rises—not whole, just fragments: laughter in sunlight, a hand brushing mine, a promise I once believed I could keep.
Warmth fades quickly, replaced by that quiet sting of regret. The hand wasn't always gentle. The laughter masked something I wasn't ready to see. And the promise… it sits in my chest now, stubborn and heavy.
Then I hear it—a faint tapping at the window. Not loud, not urgent, just a rhythm that feels… deliberate. I freeze. Outside, the world seems still. No one should be there. And yet, the sound continues, almost like it's trying to remind me of something I've long forgotten. My pulse quickens, and I realize the echo isn't just in my mind anymore.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my fingers tracing the memory the sound stirred. The echoes grow louder. They don't scold, they don't demand—they simply remind. I remember walking away, not in anger or fear, but thinking absence was easier for everyone. And now, decades later, the echoes return quietly, insistent, pointing me somewhere I can't yet name.
I stand, moving toward the window. Across the street, a figure moves—a stranger, yet hauntingly familiar. My chest tightens. Recognition? Coincidence? I cannot tell. But I know I cannot turn back.