🕯️ for something i regret

     glasgow, 17 april 1925     a day before the fire of kelvin hall

edith was sleepwalking again.

her husband naturally found it unnatural. she knew it to be a symptom of a life she hoped to stop remembering. the doctors referred her to somebody to somebody to somebody – an endless line of somebodies – until one told her a story she thought she might be hysterical from knowing. it wasn’t until they told her every detail of a life she had not lived that she even came close to believing, and here it was again, recurring now in her waking moments, haunting her like black cats and closed doors and daughters she cannot find in one room until she checked thrice over. she thought the story to be outlandish, naturally, and that she was unnatural for having such desires at all. the bookkepers, they called themselves, though they worked at kelvin hall with those old books and musty paintings, told her to report anything she might think was relevant, and she thought it another odd request among many.

until her dream led her to elsewhere, to kelvin hall where they worked – and she brushed it off. it was only a dream, not a memory interrupted. nothing more.

    glasgow, 18 april 1925    kelvin hall burns

she should’ve warned them of the fire.