Fragments in Static: Echoes from a Room That Remembers

A corridor of rusted echoes, where hands reach for empty pockets of light. The machine hums—soft, insistent—pressing static against the bones of the walls. A sentence left unfinished by the mouth of the radio drifts like a slow river, circling the drain of morning. Beneath the floorboards, laughter dissolves into wire.

Between pages torn from maps of places that never were, footsteps vanish into ink. You press your ear to the margin, listening for the sound of forgotten letters rearranging themselves into lost conversations. A thread of wind tightens around the rooftops, tying knots in the fog. Meanwhile, a clock with no hands insists that time is an invention of absence.

A postcard arrives, addressed to no one, scrawled in a language that flickers like a dying filament. The sky folds inward, paper-thin and brittle, revealing another sky beneath it—one stitched together from old receipts and unfinished prayers. Somewhere in the static, a bird sings in reverse, its melody unraveling as it rises.

Glass unshatters. The mirror, impatient, erases its own reflection, swallowing the ghost of whoever last stood before it. A key, turned but never used, vibrates in the palm of a hand made of dust. Across the street, a neon sign spells out an apology that no one remembers needing. A dog with the eyes of a clock watches the city dissolve into silhouettes.

Silence builds cathedrals from missing words. A door opens, but only inward, leading to a room filled with the scent of extinguished candles. Somewhere in the static, an unfinished thought clicks into place, reshaping the sky once more. The machine hums, softer now, insistent still. The corridor remains, waiting.