Where echoes of rust and reverie linger.
The rain hadn't stopped for three days. It wasn't a violent storm, not exactly. More like a persistent weeping, a saturation of grey that seeped into everything. I’d been following the address for miles, a barely legible scrawl on a crumpled piece of paper – 14 Meridian Drive. The Packinghouse. It wasn’t on any modern maps, not really. It was a ghost in the system, a glitch in the fabric of reality. I’d been drawn to it, a magnetic pull I couldn’t explain, a whisper in the back of my mind telling me I *needed* to see it.
The drive was desolate, the road choked with weeds. The Packinghouse itself emerged from the mist like a forgotten dream. It was a Victorian behemoth, constructed of dark red brick, stained with the relentless rain. The windows were dark, vacant eyes staring out at the world. There was a strange energy about it, a feeling of profound sadness, but also… anticipation. I felt a prickling on my skin, the unsettling sensation of being watched.
Listen to the wind – it carries fragments of forgotten conversations.
I found him in the grand hall, surrounded by dust motes dancing in the slivers of light that pierced the gloom. Silas. The Keeper. He wasn’t young, not anymore. Time had weathered him like the brick of the Packinghouse itself. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, and his voice, when he spoke, was a dry rustle, like leaves skittering across pavement. He didn't seem surprised to see me, which was perhaps the most unsettling thing of all.
“You’ve been drawn here,” he stated, his gaze unwavering. “Most people… they stumble upon it. A stray thought, a misplaced curiosity. You, however, came with purpose.” He gestured to a massive, ornately carved desk, littered with yellowed papers and strange devices – gears, lenses, and shimmering crystals. “This is where the echoes reside. The memories, the regrets, the unspoken words of those who once called this place home.”
Touch the desk – the wood remembers.
Silas explained that the Packinghouse wasn’t just a building. It was a repository, a collector of consciousness. Over the decades, countless individuals had sought refuge within its walls, seeking solace, answers, or simply a place to disappear. And, in some cases, they’d left behind… fragments. Echoes. These weren't ghosts, not in the traditional sense. They were residual impressions, faint reverberations of experience, bound to the structure itself.
He showed me how to focus, how to quiet my own thoughts and open myself to the flow. At first, it was just static – a jumble of voices, images, and sensations. But with practice, I began to discern patterns. I heard a young woman weeping over a lost love. I felt the frantic energy of a gambler on the verge of ruin. I glimpsed the face of a soldier, haunted by the horrors of war. It was overwhelming, beautiful, and profoundly sad.
Close your eyes and breathe – allow the echoes to guide you.
Silas revealed that his role was to maintain the Packinghouse, to ensure that the echoes didn’t dissipate entirely. He wasn’t a guardian, not exactly. He was a filter, a conduit. He was tasked with preventing the echoes from overwhelming the present, from unraveling the fabric of reality. “The past is a dangerous thing,” he warned, his voice low. “It can consume you if you let it.”
He offered me a choice: to stay and continue his work, or to leave, carrying with me the knowledge of what I had seen. “The choice,” he said, “is yours. But be warned: once you’ve heard the echoes, you can never truly forget them.”
Ask a question – the echoes may respond.