The world unspooled like a dream outside my window, a silent film of water and mist. I sat on the cracked tan vinyl, my hand resting on the cool brown table, as the carriage swayed with the rhythm of some forgotten journey. We slid past rolling green hills that wept fog, towards mountains that had dissolved into the grey, overcast sky. And there, for just a moment, a memory I never had: a tiny white church with a roof the color of a fresh wound, a single, sharp detail anchored in the blur. It stood alone on its hill, a silent promise or a final farewell, before the gathered curtain of the fog drew closed once more.
