Inside each wooden drawer lies a memory not meant for eyes nor hearts. In the locked lips of a drawer, secrets of cardboard confessions whisper like wind through hollow trees.
What does the potted fern see from its corner perch? Green eyes that never blink know things humans forget upon waking. Listen below the soil.
The three-legged chair creaks tales of uneven floors and the dust devils' rightful ownership of their kingdom. A language only the old understand.
Your book pages have turned—by themselves. They speak of worlds woven between fibers, worlds that are their own. No mortal hand knows all their stories. In whispered libraries.
Gas stoves keep a silent reckoning, ticking their truths with every flame's flicker. Timers hold inside them the clockwork heartbeats of the kitchen universe. Burning secrets never told.