A room with a window left ajar, a door crafted by hand, and the quiet hum of life beyond. But in the moonlight, she appears—a lady in white, standing by the banana tree, watching in silence. Time has passed, and she has faded, yet her presence lingers like an unspoken secret. A story of quiet hauntings, memory, and the inexplicable figures that imprint themselves upon our lives.
The window stands perpetually ajar, inviting the world beyond to whisper its secrets inside. From my sheltered vantage point, I watch life unfold beyond the glass. Behind me, a sky-blue door—crafted by my own hands—stands directly across from the window, its presence both familiar and distant.
The air is thick with heat and humidity, clinging to the walls like an unseen weight. On the left side of the room, a double-deck bed dominates the space, its sturdy frame unyielding. At its foot, a wooden table sits beside the door, worn but reliable. Above the table, a framed airbrush poster captures a black cat prowling along a building’s perron, its silhouette frozen in quiet mischief. Another window lies just beyond, allowing air to flow freely, though an inexplicable warmth lingers, wrapping around me like an unwelcome embrace.
That second window opens onto a narrow lane leading to the bustling market, tucked at the end of a gentle curve. To the left, a patch of untamed earth stretches out, wild grass swaying lazily in the breeze. At its heart stands a towering banana tree, its broad leaves rustling with secrets of their own.
And there, in the silver glow of the moon, she appears. The lady in white.
She stands beside the banana tree, motionless yet unmistakably present. Her gaze drifts toward me now and then, but our exchanges are silent—devoid of words, of smiles, of anything beyond recognition.
As the years passed, I grew. And she faded.
Her presence became nothing more than an echo, slipping away into the folds of memory. Until now, she has remained a secret, locked away in the quiet corners of my heart.
Perhaps you have seen her too—crossing the threshold of your own existence, lingering just long enough to be remembered.
Prompt: You find yourself drawn to a presence that has always been there, just beyond the threshold of understanding. She does not speak, nor does she beckon—she only watches. Write about a figure from your past that lingers in the periphery of your memory, fading yet never truly gone.
