There was once a whisper beneath the stairwell, a voice like a forgotten song, echoing in the halls after dusk. Its melody faded, leaving behind notes of the mundane, the details of life imperfectly scribbled in the margins of a journal no one would ever read. Occasionally, a visitor, brushes past the whisper, leaving it untouched, suspended in time.
The room next to mine has stories in its creaks—of old furniture and longer shadows, of residents past, who settled here hoping to belong somewhere. Here, I trace their invisible paths, stories wrapped in still air, waiting to unfold like letters left unsent.
I see them sometimes, these tales, in the flecks of dust caught in afternoon light, pirouetting in their slow, graceful dance. Tiny verses etched in silence, reminders that insignificance spins its own narrative; that every quiet breath shares a story.
Somewhere, a door clicks shut. The echo offers a fleeting connection to the outside world, a reminder that the stories, no matter how quiet, persist. Through these tales of little things, I find comfort in insignificance.