Author: Frida Enevoldsen | Date: Forgotten
The bird came again. It only sings when something dies. This time, it didn’t sing.
I played an old cassette in reverse—heard her voice through static: “You remember me wrong.” “You always do.”
My window is cracked. From the outside.
And in the reflection, where the bird sat— there was no bird. Only her veil, caught mid-motion.