Author: Oskar Friis | Date: ???
I don’t remember putting the urn there. But it’s always been in the attic. It hums at night. Sometimes, I hear breathing.
Last week, I opened it. Inside wasn’t ash—but hair. Curled and still warm.
It pulsed when I touched it. I smelled a woman’s perfume. Familiar. I wept without knowing why.
Since then, the birds no longer land on our roof. And my daughter no longer speaks in her voice. It’s someone else’s voice now.
She calls me “Copy.”