In the silence, time unfolds its wings, brushing against the invisible strings of memory. An echo returns not to the source, but to the listener, dancing with shadows.
Whispered truths linger, layering over each other like translucent sheets, revealing the contours of forgotten words.
What did you say, the walls seem to ask, with voices disguised in the susurrus of evening calm. The room listens, patiently, to what you dare not speak aloud. The echo remembers, even if you do not.
Reflections linger long after the sound has ceased. Waves crash internally, muted by distance, but palpable in their rhythmic insistence.
You sit in the chair that creaks like an old friend. Its protests are comforting, as is the smell of books unopened for seasons.
Outside, the world spins, oblivious. Inside, every whisper is magnified, every thought an echo in the cathedral of what's not said, yet understood. Here, words are not mere sounds, they are the very architecture of solitude.