she steps out from the quiet darkness towards the glow that’s so familiar yet suddenly so far. the surrounding concrete grumbles as it blocks the wind and holds on to the escaping light within, it’s cracks passing on a series of chinese whispers about her fate.
the tunnel is cold, but her skin doesn’t reflect the temperature of her soul. the flask, now discarded, catches the moonlight as it lays between the crushed stones and rolled steel, only moments away from the last imprint of her recently purchased shoes.
she recoils from the past and shrinks away from its memory. he reaches for her and paints a picture in between two opposing mirrors, confusing her sense of direction and the understanding of what’s forward, and what’s behind. so she pulls out her compass, but it refuses to point her north, instead swivelling in every direction as if it knows the true intentions of her heart. little by little, her despair impedes her will to advance further, and she is left sitting on the edge of the tunnel, watching the glow in between the two mirrors, unsure which is real, and which is only a reflection.
but on both sides the light grows, coming closer and closer, following the tracks of the flat bottomed rails. she closes her eyes as the whispers become louder and lays back, thinking the last thoughts of who, what, when, where and why. of her story and why it was written. and whether there was ever a compass to follow at all.