Some nights, the veil melts away, and a quiet mist slips through the cracks. A whisper moves through it, delicate enough to doubt, the kind of sound that forgets itself even as it’s heard. There is no memory for those who enter, only
the sense of having stepped into something sacred by mistake. The doors close and lock with them everything behind them. And sometimes, moons later, a single pale petal appears where it shouldn’t be, quietly glowing, waiting for the wind to remember it.
Inspired by Where Winds Meet.
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