So it’s a few days late, but I wanted to write a small piece based on the picture prompt from last week’s Friday Fictioneers. The picture itself could lend itself to so many different things.
Chorus of Ghosts
The way the water moved was a chorus of secrets; of names lost to time, words to fear. A hand would brush your cheek as you walked the nearby paths, clouds of mist would blur even the brightest sun into a pale moonlight.
Standing on the edge of the stream felt like breaking the rules.
As I stepped further in – to my ankles, my knees, my waist – the whispers grew louder. The hand against my cheek was soft as I took a breath, sinking beneath the surface.
I wanted to sing with the chorus of ghosts.