I thought I had left it behind. That wall. That reflection. That sentence engraved in the hollow of my memory like a burn that no walking could erase. And yet… I had barely left the previous room, barely stepped into the next space — when I felt it again. Not like a memory, nor even like a ghost. But like a gentle, insistent pressure, a formless presence lurking in my flesh, returned to coil around my bones without asking for permission.
Something hadn't disappeared.
Something hadn't accepted that I'd left.
A breath. But not mine. Not a wind, either. Nothing external, nothing identifiable. It was something else — something slower, deeper, more solemn than silence itself. A detached breath, without mouth, without lungs. A breath that didn't try to be heard, but that persisted nonetheless, with that discreet regularity, almost stubborn, as if it were breathing through the world or through me.
And it came from behind me.
I didn't turn around.
Not right away.
