The Path of Echoes

Every evening, the hum of the city fades, replaced by the unsettling crunch of gravel beneath hurried footsteps. Marla walks the same path, shadowed by dense fog rolling in from the harbor. The air is thick with an unusual metallic taste, sweet yet cloying. She glances at the old brass sculptures lining the street—odd creatures locked in mid-motion, their expressions forever fixed in ambiguous agony. As she passes, she feels their eyes, hollow and unyielding, burrowing into her soul. Each night, she notices something different; a missing finger on one, a new crack in another. Curiosity becomes anxiety as she starts to doubt her own observations. Is she imagining changes, or is the street alive? It feels as though it knows her; it pulls at her senses, enveloping her in invisible threads. Marla's heart races as the fog thickens. She becomes acutely aware of footsteps behind her—steady, just out of sight. Panic rises, rooted deep in the realization that no one else walks this path. She turns to confront the presence, but only sees the sculptures now staggered, rearranged, faces transformed into twisted grins. Suddenly, her reflection in the shattered glass of a nearby shop reveals a figure standing beside her, an echo of her own smile, too wide, too knowing. It whispers her name, and she realizes—she's never walked alone. Who, or what, has been following her?