Author: Mikkel Hald | Date: 11 November, unknown year
She stood on the river. Not above, not below—on. She was veiled, faceless, and yet I felt as if she wore my own grief as a mask.
She pointed toward the reeds. I remembered my sister’s burial—though I was an only child. The brush of memory that isn’t mine has started happening more often.
Mud clung to my boots afterward. Inside it: teeth. Not human. Not animal. Since that day, I dream of the Church by the Sea.
I’ve never been there. Not awake.