My body starts remembering before I do.

I hesitate at corners without knowing why. My feet choose longer routes. I cross the street instinctively, my pulse already climbing. It takes time to realize I’m avoiding places that haven’t spoken yet—but feel like they might.

Old buildings hum with it.
Bridges ache with it.

The cemetery is unbearable.

The moment I step inside, the sound swells—hundreds of voices surging at once, overlapping so densely they lose all shape. Grief collides with laughter. Anger fractures into relief. Some voices sound light, almost joyful. Others are sharp enough to cut.

It feels wrong to be alive there.

I press my hands over my ears. The sound blooms anyway, vibrating through bone and thought. My vision swims. My stomach twists. I can’t tell if I’m hearing the dead—or the impressions they burned into the world when they left.

I learn something I wish I hadn’t.

When I acknowledge the whispers—even silently—they sharpen, edges pulled into focus.
When I pretend I don’t hear them, they sink lower, closer, as if crouching just beneath my awareness.

Silence doesn’t mean they’re gone.

It means they’re waiting.