In the twilight hours, when the sun unfurls its gossamer threads, thoughts suspended like amber in the trees. Remember the porcelain figures guarding the mantelpiece, their smiles both reassuring and unnerving—echoes of souls long entwined with the fabric of their time.
Petals of a faded letter flutter beside the hearth, ink bleeding into folklore. The clock on the wall, often unwound, believes itself to be a ship adrift in yesterdays, sailing through sepia-toned waters.
Fragments of laughter—faint yet achingly present—grace the air, like the last notes of a morose symphony, unravelling at the edges, inviting one to reminisce the ineffable.