It was less of a dream and more of a memory. A reminiscent time of when she was a woman who had something to live for. A family who would see her – a family that knew she was alive. All she was, now, was an obituary and a headstone. Something forgotten to the sands of time.
Every time this dream came back she was reminded that no one would remember her. Not as she truly was. That Synne was dead and no one would know this Synne long enough to mourn her.
The conversation was lost to the fake sounds of a busy street corner and the ghosts but the words were known to heart. A playful conversation about work, about her sister, about her brother, about her mother.
How are they? that girl inside the establishment questioned, because she had never bothered to keep in contact. Too much work, getting roped into conversations that would last too long when she had better things to do. How fickle that all seemed from the other side of the veil.