Some places aren’t meant to be found — only followed.
The morning after the door, I walked without a plan. I wasn’t trying to understand what had happened. My body moved before my mind caught up. The fog was thick again, but different. Warmer, somehow. Like it knew I was coming.
Lilly wasn’t with me. But I didn’t feel alone.
I followed the sound of a bell. Not loud — soft, distant. Like memory. Each time I stepped forward, it grew quieter. Each time I paused, it returned.
Eventually, the path bent toward an old terrace. Stone steps barely visible through the moss. At the top, a bell tower leaned slightly, as if unsure of itself. The kind of place I might’ve walked past before, assuming it was closed, broken, not for me.
But this time, I climbed.
The steps were cracked. Some missing entirely. But as I stood at the edge of each broken piece, another appeared — just long enough to carry my weight. I didn’t think. I didn’t even breathe too loudly. I simply… listened.
With each step, the air shifted. I heard voices, maybe my own. A memory of my mother’s voice saying “Are you sure?” A teacher saying “You hesitate too much.” Myself, whispering: “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
And yet, I climbed.
At the top, the bell swayed gently. It made no sound.
Not until I sat beneath it. Not until I stopped trying to ring it.
Then — a single chime. And I cried.
Sometimes, the loudest voices in your life aren’t shouting. They’re the ones that echo, softly, when you’re still.
I heard them all that morning. And I let them speak.
But I didn’t follow them.
Not anymore.