In the still of a clouded night, a whisper beckoned below the floorboards—a tale woven from fragments of tongues and tattered parchment.
What do they know, the shadows aligning on dusty corridors? In hushed tones, the neighbors speak of a postal worker vanishing. No one cares. A package filled with unmarked pawns stood poised reported at the “Exchange”—barely mentioned.
A broken clock. The hands twist in ornate deception. Each tick unraveling secrets beneath hidden spaces. What is contained within the ink-stained letters? Perhaps, a plot against thoughts unspoken, burrowing in unholy reverence.
“It’s all a plume of smoke,” insists an outside voice, “Smoke rushing from tea cups unfit, shadows reflecting truths that writhe.” Alliteration trails behind, does it not? In night’s laboratories, delicately converging on barrel-rolled resolutions washed in paranoia.
There’s a puppet master pulling strings made of wire and fear. Can you feel the vibration of eyes observing from cracks uninvited? How many times has this story been spoken whispered into plastic grin temples?
Alas, do you too tuck beneath eyelids—breath stifled, ready to crumble? Are we mere whispers navigating corridors never to surface again, or trodden spaces with skin-prickling echoes of what thrives beneath?