Echoes Of The Past

I don’t know why the 1920s haunt me. Every sentence I write feels like a memory, not fiction. Isabella’s sorrow flows through my fingers as I type—her forced marriage, her love lost to war. Then I met Theo, and everything cracked open. He looks at me like he’s known me for a lifetime. Maybe he has. The photograph we found shows two people who could be our twins—her in silk, him in uniform—dated 1923. Now I dream in sepia and wake up crying his name: William. And his wife Sarah… she watches us like a hawk, whispering things she couldn’t possibly know. The past isn’t buried. It’s bleeding into now.

Echoes Of The Past

I don’t know why the 1920s haunt me. Every sentence I write feels like a memory, not fiction. Isabella’s sorrow flows through my fingers as I type—her forced marriage, her love lost to war. Then I met Theo, and everything cracked open. He looks at me like he’s known me for a lifetime. Maybe he has. The photograph we found shows two people who could be our twins—her in silk, him in uniform—dated 1923. Now I dream in sepia and wake up crying his name: William. And his wife Sarah… she watches us like a hawk, whispering things she couldn’t possibly know. The past isn’t buried. It’s bleeding into now.

My fingers tremble on the keys as I type the final line: He died in the rain, and she never stopped waiting.

It’s not a story. It’s a memory.

Theo knocks softly on my door, holding an envelope sealed with wax—the same crest from my dreams. His eyes are red. "Sarah found your letters," he says. "She knows about Isabella."

I remember last night’s dream too clearly: Sarah in velvet, standing over William’s grave, whispering, You’ll never have her again.

Now she’s missing. Theo got a text: If you loved me, you’d let her go.

My chest tightens. This isn’t just history repeating—it’s accelerating.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number. A photo: Sarah standing on Blackthorn Bridge, rain slashing down.

We have to save her. But part of me wonders—should we?