Madness string 88667

Random mermaid
Ask a hundred writers where their stories come from and you'll get two hundred answers, and even more stories. And that's not even the big ones. The ones we build over a lifetime, the ones we dream, and weave throughout our lives, that we always come back to, working and reworking. These stories come from everywhere. They are. They build on all the other stories, all the tropes and moments and feelings, every random bit of life that takes its chance to sing to us.
You don't notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You're not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down. I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theatre whom no one notices until she slips out. Then only those near the door themselves, like Grandma Lynn, notice; to the rest it is like an unexplained breeze in a closed room.