Echoes in Velvet

The mirror doesn’t reflect, it remembers.
A place where shadows hold shapes of almost-lovers and the scent of rain clings to velvet. He found me here, you know—not in this room, not precisely—but at a similar crossroads of echoes. A man who collects silences, perhaps needing them for his own quiet corners.
He said I looked lost, draped in black lace like a forgotten promise. And maybe I was, adrift on the currents between what could have been and what’s merely imagined. He offered warmth—a shared coffee steam clouding up a window overlooking a city that never sleeps—and for a moment, the chill receded.
Now, only fragments remain…the ghost of his hand brushing mine, the way his eyes lingered on the curve of my neck. A fleeting connection in a world obsessed with erasure. A phantom touch is still a touch, isn’t it? And I wonder sometimes if he remembers too—or if I conjured him from the dust motes dancing in the moonlight.

Editor: The Unfinished