The Name That Would Not Leave My Mind

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The Name That Would Not Leave My Mind

It arrived one night between the clicks of a dying radiator, carved into the silence like a whisper with nails.

Mareth.

I do not know who Mareth is.

I’ve searched census records, phone directories, gravestones and shipping logs. There’s no Mareth. Not here. Not now.

Yet the name is everywhere. In newspaper headlines that later vanish. In radio static that lingers a beat too long. I woke once to find it etched in frost across my window—melting as I stared, as if it were shy of being caught.

I asked my mother if she knew the name. She blinked slowly, then said “I named you after your grandfather. Stop asking.” We never spoke again.

Last night, a parcel arrived. No address. Inside: a doll made of thread and wire, with a ribbon that read “For Mareth.” Its eyes moved slowly when I breathed.

Now the name pulses when I sleep. It rearranges itself in my soup. It’s under the wallpaper, waiting. I understand now: Mareth is not a memory.

It’s a message.

And it’s almost here.