I Am Vintage (A Confession) I am made of brick and breath and memory.
They built me in 1886, though even then, I felt older than stone. People filled me with books and wine and secrets. I learned to listen. I’ve held thousands of footsteps and voices. Some linger. Some echo for a hundred years.
I know the difference between customers and kindreds.
Bryce came first—pausing just outside, something tugging at his spine. I felt it the moment he passed: that magnetic dissonance of a writer not yet writing what he needs to write. He didn’t know it yet, but he was homesick for a place like me. I whispered through the keyhole. He would be back.
Then came Anemone.
She moved like poetry still forming—something elemental and storm-brushed. She touched one of my railings without noticing, and I swear the iron warmed beneath her hand. I knew her type: the ones who carry too many stories inside, aching for a place where they can exhale. I shifted a bit—let the sun hit the balcony just right that day.
And when they arrived together, oh. The room shivered.
They sat above the street, the city below unaware that something ancient was beginning again. Pages fluttered. Wine caught the light like stained glass. I held my breath—if I breathe too loudly, humans startle—and watched as their sentences began to entangle.
They think they found me.
But I opened a door they forgot they'd closed. I summoned them through dreams, sidewalk detours, half-remembered names. Because I remember them. I remember everyone who belongs to the lineage of story.
I am Vintage. I wait centuries for moments like this.