There are places that aren’t meant to be remembered.
They linger at the edges of thought—caught between waking and dream—
half-seen, half-felt, like mist that clings to you long after it’s gone.
You can’t touch them.
But somehow, they never let go.
It began on a day too still.
The air hung heavy, waiting,
as if the world itself had paused to listen.
Lila and I walked the same route we always did—
past the groaning oak, the bent street sign,
and that narrow alley that never led anywhere.
We used to joke about it.
Say that one day it would open up if we looked hard enough.
We always laughed.
We always turned away.
But that day,
it wasn’t empty.
The shadows looked wrong—
too deep, too thick,
as if the darkness had weight.
“You’re not thinking of going down there,” Lila said.
I should have said no.
Instead, I stepped closer.
The air tightened.
The sounds of the street—cars, birds, voices—
fell away one by one
until only our footsteps remained.
The alley stretched.
The walls seemed to breathe.
I looked back—
and the entrance was gone.
Not blocked.
Not hidden.
Gone.
“Where’s the way out?” Lila whispered.
I didn’t answer.
The ground felt damp underfoot,
the air tasting of dust and rain that had never fallen.
Then, ahead of us,
a door.
Small.
Covered in ivy.
Waiting.
It looked familiar somehow,
like something from a forgotten dream.
And then came the whisper.
Turn it.
Soft.
Close.
Our mother’s voice.
But our mother was dead.
We opened the door.
Inside—
a small room lined with clocks.
Hundreds of them.
All ticking,
none in time.
The air throbbed with their rhythm,
a sound like a heartbeat coming apart.
In the center sat a chair.
And in the chair—
her.
Our mother.
Her eyes were open but wrong,
her smile too slow,
too knowing.
“You found it,” she said.
“The path remembers its own.”
The clocks stopped.
Everything froze.
The walls dissolved into mist,
the floor trembled beneath us,
and the sky turned a color no human word could name.
I reached for Lila’s hand.
But she wasn’t there.
Only the echo of her voice,
fading into the fog.
The path had never led us out.
It had led us somewhere else.
Somewhere far worse.
And now,
we would never be able to leave.
Not now.
Not ever.
In the end, we all find the paths we’re meant to walk—
though a warning to you… some paths are best left unseen.