In the quietest of mornings, when the world is still wrapped in soft shadows, the annex holds its breath. It's an empty space, yet overflowing with the scents of imagination and lingering stories.
Among the cracked walls, a whisper travels: "Do we ever reach the stars we chase, or are they mere lanterns guiding us through fog?"
The room smells like aged books and forgotten dreams. Outside, the sound of a swing creaking, perhaps controlled by a breeze or an invisible friend, dances with thoughts yet formed into words.
Dust particles float like tiny galaxies in beams of light. They remind us of the universe contained in our beholder's eye, ever detached yet near, an annex to our own consciousness.
"Here lies the world not spoken, echoing in the spaces between heartbeats," another voice murmurs, barely above a whisper.
Time spills like an overfull cup. Within the annex, we realize that some journeys only take place within this sanctuary of silence, away from the cacophony of obligatory living.