It was always about music. A mournful hum hit the walls, gently reverberating until it found its way to their young ears. Usually that call was a mere whisper, slithering through holes of the cloth but this time it reached a much wider audience.
Stitch the notes together and watch as a sweet hum turns into a song. Its sound is enough to keep memories on the edge of unreal, the melody permeating the souvenirs.
Sweet little snippets of memories, spun into small little objects. And for what? You open the album and you can hear a hum, curling around your frame, slithering into your brain.
You watch the photos change, you watch smiles twist and turn and curl into malicious smirks and hungry grins. Their teeth turn sharp and black. It is enough to close the album to make it all stop; memories, though, persist.
They haunt your thoughts, colours oversaturated, even if the photos were black and white. They are bright, ringing in your head like a static noise you sometimes hear when things become too quiet.
In the end, though, something always will distract you from this. Humans can't live focused on one thing only. Variation is where they thrive, and so soon the memories dissipate. But all you need is a reminder, a push. A trigger.
Senses are such a whimsy creatures. Anything can remind you of things old gone. Time is cruel and unforgiving for your focus, but memories turn your body into a vessel of records.
You avoid meds, you avoid schoolbands, you avoid things that many find a little funny. They humor you, though, and you are grateful for that. People do have illogical fears, right?
Allegiances and musicshops. You were never one for music, not anymore, at least. Trashing out old cassettes brought relief. Idea of karaokes brings a mild panic. Your throat exists only for talking.
One text message and a person you barely know name of digitalising what they could get their hands on online was enough to bring memories again. A push of a little button of a laptop. You spend next few hours browsing all the posts they posted and reminiscing.
Some memories resurfaced again and you sunk into them, remembering. You cried, even when you tried not to. The taste of those memories was fresh, and you heard everything again as when you heard it for the first time, except now reliving old life was oversaturated with nostalgia.
You went there. Airplane ride, rented car, it was easy, all things considered.
You didn't know, but any other day you would have heard a call by now. But today, it was quiet.
Halfway through your swim to the beach, you sunk. Your memories are fragile things, after all. It was again that little button, this time not pressed but pried out of machinery of your brain with dark pliers.