Her

LonesomeWanderer
Mar 29 · 1 min read

He was walking down a narrow, deserted, grey corridor. Rows of doors flanked his sides, always at an arm’s length. There were small lamps illuminating his path. Its tiny, restless flames were too weak, too subordinate to the shades around. It curved, billowed and dissolved in itself where the feeble light could hardly reach. The doors themselves were mute, but he smelt despair in the air, he tasted wonders he couldn’t quite place in his mind, and along with it he could sense tiny wafts of secrets unshared, of stories heard right at the edge of perception, where you no longer can tell whether it is but a whisper or a draft of wind. He didn’t remember how he got here, or whether he had been here all along. All he couth fathom in this half-remembered dream was the faint familiarity of her voice. Like drafts of wind catch dry leaves in its wake, he was drawn towards and heaved and moved in an absurd but definitive direction. He would reach close enough to the end of the never-ending corridor, and just as he was about to be united with her voice, he would wake up.
In losing her, he lost the only person he could be able to seek solace from the desolation of losing her.

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