On a grim and moonless night, shrouded in fog, we wandered into the abyssal alley behind a decaying Rainforest Cafe.
There, she emerged — a radiant specter bathed in a searing, ghostly glow. Her voice, a siren’s hymn of sweetness and sorrow, seeped into our minds like poison in honey. It was no song — it was an incantation.
Her melody bound us in spectral servitude, puppets to her unseen hand. Her name was carved into the hollow of our souls: Alice Elliot.
Her voice is our voice now. She sings through us still.
