The room tilts. I am not sure if it’s the floor or my mind that’s folding.

Voices — No, not voices — fragments, shards of sentences torn from conversations I never had or barely remember.

“Did you ever tell him you loved him?” “He was waiting for the train.” “The coat is empty.” “You are always late.” “Who’s the stranger with no face?”

The shadows creep like spilled ink, pooling beneath my feet.

I look in the mirror. My reflection stares back — but it is not mine. It smiles. It blinks. It mocks.

Then the reflection cracks.

Behind the glass, a room I don’t know: A child crying. A man with trembling hands. A woman turning away.

The walls breathe.

Time shatters.

—

I am sixteen. Or maybe eight. Or a shadow in the gray building.

I am running. I hear footsteps behind me — faster, closer, softer. I glance back — a face I recognize, and don’t.

The wind carries laughter, echoing down an endless corridor. I chase it.

—

The letter: It’s not the path, it’s the pauses.

I pause.

The street freezes. People become statues mid-step. The sky distorts — colors bleed, bleed, bleed.

I try to scream — only silence fills my mouth.

—

The photograph: me at the café.