In the shadows of conversations, where elbows meet table surfaces and linger, there lies a history written in whispers.
The world turns slightly with a bend, a jutting angle that casts memories aside like loose threads unwoven.
She remarked once, in a voice like threadbare whispers, "Isn't it curious how the forgotten maintains its own tale?" I nodded, thinking of all the times elbows rubbed against familiarity, bridging gaps with impromptu narratives.
There was a presence, unexplored, of joints that twisted time, forging a path of forgotten tales morphed by every nudge, every clandestine motion.
One might say the elbows hold histories we dare not tell, messages that flutter below the surface, like the insect caught in early morning dew.
Have you ever embraced the darkness that just might speak? Or were your elbows the ones to echo the cracks of truth unwilling to emerge?