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Weekly Contest #341
I hadn’t planned to return. Ashwood had been a town of ghosts, a place I swore I’d never see again. And yet, here I was, hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles burned, pulse matching the rhythm of my tires against the cracked asphalt. The fog clung to the road, thick and hesitant, as though it were warning me to turn back. Some ghosts don’t knock. They wait. They linger. They pull you back when you think you’ve outrun them, when you’ve built a life far enough from memory that it can’t reach you.The streets hadn’t changed. Brick ...
The kettle whistled sharply, cutting through the quiet like an accusation. Lauren froze, fingers hovering over the wooden spoon, and for a moment, the kitchen felt too small, too full of memory. Flour dusted the countertop, faintly scented with yesterday’s bread, comforting and accusing at once. She wiped her hands on her apron, aware of the echoes pressing in: voices she had carried too long, habits she had repeated without noticing, expectations that had shaped her until she disappeared inside them. Harmony, she had called it once. Patienc...
The house stood exactly where Mira had left it — at the bend of Willow Street, beneath the old lamp that still couldn’t decide between light and darkness. She paused at the rusted gate, the metal warm from the late-afternoon sun, and breathed in the familiar damp of rain-soaked soil and old wood. Sixteen years had passed since she’d promised never to come back. Sixteen years of letting one stubborn memory carry the weight of a whole childhood. But the letter had come — Demolition scheduled next week — and something inside her refused to let ...
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