Memory Lane

It’s always raining here. 

There’s a cloudy blanket resting over this city. That doesn’t mean that the rain isn’t friendly, of course. The little pinpricks of crying clouds are there to brighten the tea lights everyone puts up about their doorways, to crystallize the street signs and the tree leaves that hang over them like bowing royals. You always wondered what brought the royals to bow like that. A scandal would be too cheap for the elite figures who watch over the streets of your new home. Perhaps one of them lost a fight, and now those alongside them kneel in salute to the victors. 

Perhaps they’re just trees. Just leaves and bark and nothing special to think about. Wouldn’t that be something? Wouldn’t that be almost as interesting as all your fantasies? I think it might. I also think you’re going to miss your stop, daydreaming like this. 

You hop off the bus lightly, barely avoiding those puddles. Your apartment isn’t too far from here, right? Long walks are terrible to narrate. Only a block or two, that’s good. What’s the name of that shop to your left? It’s a daycare, right? And next to a coffee shop, too. Clever of them. There are an abnormal amount of coffee shops here, you’ve noticed. 

There are little patches in the sidewalk where these fantastic purple flowers grow. Now, there’s nothing too extraordinary about the flowers themselves, but you have decided that they’re fantastic anyway, and therefore must be described as such. Camilla, your sister, would have decided that they were fantastic. She’s why you moved here, right? Couldn’t stay back home without her. No point. Do you remember how she died? I don’t. Maybe it’s better that way. Oh, look, there’s a pink flower!

You just walked right past the pretty pink flower, you absolute heathen. One could be arrested for such crimes. No matter, there are worse crimes to be committed. How many have you checked off? Just arson? That was one time. Besides, I don’t think it counts if it’s your own house. You’re never making pancakes again. They’re very flammable. 

Why are you stopping? There’s nothing here. Nothing, and yet you’re staring at something. There’s nothing to stare at, though. A person? A cat? Oh, it’s a person. That’s disappointing. But why are you staring at this particular person, I wonder? They’re no stranger to this city, unlike you. They seem perfectly normal. Then again, normal is the strangest standard here. 

Oh, that’s why you’re staring at them. They’ve got the same hair as your sister did. Same funny way of walking, too, and the person looks like a queen surveying their kingdom of purple flowers. Nails painted black, too, just like Camilla did hers on the weekends. They’re not your sister, though. They’re not the person you grew up with. Shake your head and keep walking. Camilla died years ago. There’s no getting her back. C’mon, you’re almost home. 

Good, your slightly creepy stare is wrenched away from the person-who-isn’t-Camilla. Almost home. Almost shut away from this new world. Almost hidden away behind your pastel bars of fiction. Keep walking, sunshine. You can see the door now. It’s dripping wet, just like everything else here. And by everything, I do mean everything, because you’re being a drip right now. Stop staring at random things! You’re almost home. Stop looking at that one particular drain pipe! How on earth could it remind you of your sister? I don’t know, but it is, and we need to get you home. Come on, you’re so close. 

There, there, good job. Keep walking. Almost there, you’ve got this. Ten more paces, and you’ll be unlocking your front door. You know what? This was a mistake. It was a mistake to move to this beautiful, rainy city with all it’s memories that you’re not supposed to have. But hey, tomorrow’s gonna be better. Not today, though. The rest of today is going to be a mess. 

There’s something flashing at the end of the alleyway just to the left of your apartment. Leave it alone. It’s never good to go after random, silly flashing things. That’s how horror movies start, someone being curious and going off to check on something like an absolute-

Uh, like you, apparently. Like an absolute you. Why are you walking down there? There is no reason to go check out the pretty flashing light. However, there is every reason to go inside and watch TV and cuddle up in a blanket without any thought of whatever might be drumming on your window. Ah, you’re twirling your umbrella now, too. Feeling whimsical? Sure that there aren’t any zombies down there, ready to rip your throat out? I mean, zombies usually don’t have flashing lights, but I’m not gonna say anything about that when my point’s already been made. Don’t follow that flashing light. 

You’re doing it anyway, okay, that’s fine. Totally fine, you absolute walnut. Let’s go see what that random flashy light is. Just around the corner now, not too late to turn back. You don’t notice the moss under your fingertips as you nearly lose your balance on the slippery asphalt. No one notices moss just nearly enough. What I mean to say is, moss is very special for reasons that a mortal human will never understand and needs to be treated with a little bit more respect. 

We’re not discussing that now, though. We seem to be discussing the dangers of following unknown lights for no reason. You’re not a moth, are you? No? Then what are you doing here? You’re turning the corner to see what the light is. Fantastic. There’s no way it’ll be some kind of… uh...

Firefly. Singular noun, you’ll notice. Just one. There is one, singular firefly who looks very lost. Kind of like you. It’s just floating around in this dead end, stuck in the pattering rain. You’re remembering your sister again, that time you went out to play with the bright swarm of living Christmas lights. Your sister had had the time of her life, just before it ended. 

The next few minutes will occur in a series of strange, slightly otherworldly snapshots, much like trying to remember something while it’s already happening. You’ve caught the firefly -gently, I must add, very gently. The rain is tapping on your umbrella, like a lover knocking on the door. There’s a pleasant thrum of traffic splashing through puddles. You’re not noticing much of it, though, just thinking about Camilla. Your sister. Your dead, never coming back sister, and how much she would have loved this little town. You’re a stranger to this little town, but she wouldn’t be. 

You let the firefly go once you’ve gotten back out onto the sidewalk. Look around. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. The firefly floats away, happily, if an insect can be happy. You spin on your heel and turn back home, smiling. Good. It’s a good thing, to see you smile. 

However, I would like to go back to the firefly for a moment. The street sign it’s just drifted by. What does that one little marker say? It’s just a sign. Nothing too big to care about. The words on it are worn from years of passerby and rain. Passerby, strangers to it’s meandering realm of concrete. Strangers much like you. But still, I ask you; what does it say?

It says, “Memory Lane.”