The Places That Speak

I don’t see anything.

No shapes in the corners of rooms. No figures standing where they shouldn’t be. No proof that what I’m hearing belongs to the world at all.

That’s what frightens me.

The city looks ordinary—brick softened by age, windows reflecting a dull sky—but beneath it there’s a pressure, like something vast is leaning in close. A sound lives there. Not quite a voice. Not quite silence. The kind of noise you feel in your teeth before you recognize it with your ears.

It follows me for days before I admit it’s real.

When I pass the abandoned building on 6th, the air thickens. My breath shortens. The whisper sharpens suddenly, threading itself between my thoughts, intimate enough to feel like memory.

Please.
I didn’t leave.
I’m still here.

The words slide under my skin. My hands go cold. I don’t look at the windows because I’m afraid of what might notice me noticing.

I keep walking.

On the bridge, the sound changes.

The river below drags the sky apart into ripples, and the whisper collapses into something raw and breaking. Each word arrives uneven, soaked in grief.

Why doesn’t anyone understand me?
Why didn’t they love me?

The sound presses against my ribs, heavy enough to steal my breath. I grip the railing until the metal burns my palms, afraid that if I lean too far, the voice will recognize me.

The city keeps moving.

I don’t.

Not really.

I don’t tell anyone.

I just walk faster, like speed might tear me loose from whatever has learned my name.