The fog swallows the streets whole. It curls around crumbling buildings like smoke from a fire long extinguished. My boots crunch against gravel and shards of glass, each step echoing too loudly in the hollow morning. The city stretches before me, endless and skeletal, a labyrinth of shadows and rust.
I've walked this way before—in dreams, I think—but now the air smells of cold stone and dust instead of memory. Streetlamps flicker weakly, casting jagged patterns into the fog. Shadows move just a fraction too late—or too early.
Something shifts above me. Windows blink back at me, reflecting my uncertain gaze. A whisper brushes past my ears, indistinct, carrying the cadence of a warning. My chest tightens. My heart rattles against ribs that suddenly feel fragile.
There. A statue, cracked and worn, half-buried in weeds. The emblem carved into its base tugs at a memory I can't place. Familiar, haunting. Like the echo of a city I've never visited… or have I?
I step closer. The city waits.
The air thickens as I move deeper into the streets. Fog coils around corners like fingers trying to keep me from passing. Whispers thread through the mist: almost words, almost warnings. My pulse hammers, echoing through the shifting pavement beneath my boots.
I glance over my shoulder. Nothing. Still, eyes press down on me, shadows twisting unnaturally. A lamppost flares once, then dies, plunging the alley into darkness for a heartbeat that feels like minutes.
Gravel gives way to uneven pavement. Buildings lean at impossible angles. My journal feels heavy in my bag, sensing the city's scrutiny.
Then, glimpses—half-memory, half-shadow—flash across walls: distorted faces, fragments of moments I don't recognize, echoes of past lives that the city has absorbed. My stomach knots. Every misstep, every hesitation, shapes the city.
I pause in a small plaza. Broken benches, weeds through stone, fog curling like smoke. A statue half-buried in moss calls to me. Its emblem hums faintly under my fingers, alive in a subtle way. "The heir…" the whisper slips through the fog.
I kneel, brushing away the grime. My journal feels impossibly heavy now, almost sentient. I sense it too recognizes the city's presence. The choice is mine. Curiosity burns hotter than fear.
I stand, scanning the plaza. Fog swirls, shadows stretch a little too long. The city waits.
And I step further in.