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Vindelian Whispers

Summary:

The dead cannot speak, but ink and letters can.
Stories are often woven from the mind, (or are they?)
In a wonderfully grim world, tales begin to flow through the river of fiction and reality.

Chapter 1: Introduction

Chapter Text

Weaving through a crowd, I look up every now and then, only to see a stormy gray sky. Same like always.

Nothing different, nothing new. A purgatory or truth? I ponder such questions, walking through the tight spaces of alleyways.

I don't remember who I was, nor who I'm supposed to be. Memories of my past remain a faded picture, an old cassette tape trying to recall the voices from back then.

Each time I recall, it only looks like a picture taken with a polaroid, only for the picture to slowly gather dust.

Stepping out to a clearing, I finally look in front of me. The fountain. Clear water rising up only to gently fall back down.

Each interaction I'd done an hour prior, they were fading away from my mind, like usual. I smile, I laughed, I talked, I moved. A daily routine, never ending. Maybe one day, I'll find true happiness of my own. 

I walk up to the fountain with a coin in hand. Tossing it and watching the ripples, I clasp my fingers, hope blooming into my heart once more. I no longer knew what I was. A living corpse? An empty soul fading away? A ghost in a cycle of death?

Everyone has told me once. "You think too much." I always shrugged it off, although I did think it was probably not a good thing. This time however, I let my thoughts fade away. Muting all the voices rampant in my head, I let myself do what I want without worry.

If anything, I knew there was always something I wanted to have again. 

 

Please, give me the universe's untold stories to fill this hunger.