The shadow whispers. Once a Yew tree stood, watched.
Welcoming hands eroded, over centuries.
Inside voice echoes, a corridor darkens.
Ink bleeds into stories unknown, pages ripped.
The past is a crumple, a forgotten note sealed beneath glass.
Locked whispers inside hollow walls breathe, then grow silent.
Cobwebs weave between the unsaid, dust settles.
Once written, now erased—a ghost's laughter haunts.
Intersect these paths, blur reality: