Ashes of reality

Sometimes things end suddenly. But more often - they fade away slowly, almost unnoticed. First, you lose time. Then - memory. And finally - yourself. He doesn't remember when it began. Maybe that evening he came home and didn't say a word. Maybe that night he looked in the mirror and saw a stranger's eyes... Or maybe... it started long before that. A person doesn't die all at once. Sometimes he lingers - in between... Between the past and the future... Between who he was and who he's become. It's not hell, not heaven, not purgatory - it's a corridor. Creaking floorboards, a childhood room, photographs without faces. A world stitched together from fragments: smells, words, fading images. A world where everything whispers: "You've been here before." But you don't remember. Here, the shadows remember - even if you no longer exist. Here, the past won't let go - it clings, it whispers, it bursts from cracks beneath your feet. You can run, but the door will still be waiting. You can forget, but it won't. In this world, you'll be called by the voices of those you loved - and the voices of those you betrayed. Or maybe it's all a dream. A coma. A psychosis. A fantasy of a dying brain clinging desperately to scraps of reality before disappearing. But if it's just a dream - why does it scratch your heart so painfully? Why do you cry, not knowing who you are - or what you've lost? Maybe the answer is in the sound of footsteps on a dusty floor. Maybe - in a glance through fogged-up glass. Or maybe... in the silence. The kind that knows too much. You don't remember. But the feeling remains - as if someone's waiting, as if you already chose the wrong door once. And now you're here again - to remember... or to be lost forever.