Wherever you look, most things in life seem to carry a shadow.
In the dim light of a barn, I stumbled upon a strange hoard: a collection of vintage baby carriages. Dozens of them, lined up in rows or haphazardly stacked, some cradling old-fashioned dolls whose glassy eyes caught the light in unsettling ways. The sight was macabre.
The thought that countless tiny souls had once lain in those prams seemed to seep into the air, thickening it with something cold. In my mind’s eye, I could already see the dolls climbing out, one by one, moving soundlessly to encircle me. Was I merely imagining it, or did I truly hear the soft whir of a wheel turning?
For years, the dusty prams had been left in storage, meant to one day grace the halls of a baby carriage museum. But that dream never came to pass. I was told the owner had packed them all up, carting them off in search of another home for his peculiar collection.
© E n i s ∞ r
Birth and death are both transitions of coming and going.
