Moving through the frame like a memory, half-remembered, the wet pavement bakes in the over-warm summer's day, her white dress whispering against the wind like a ghost, thickening with history.
Even standing still, she feels like a memory deciding whether to stay or fade, the deeper the mist goes when your train is finally about to carry onto where you are heading next,
a mystery suspended between departure and whatever waits beyond the fog, a doorway into another world standing at the edge of the stairs inviting nobody but the pair of you into it.
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Image courtesy Emily M. Foster
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