Thoughts echo in this empty space, silent make-believes. Time ticks differently here. An erratic rhythm, like sporadic heartbeats in tandem with purpose. The sky, a constant shade of grey, heavy with whispers.

The mailman said it was Monday, but the calendar protested silence. Did you hear the clock chime? No, that's just the clock's attempt at conversation. Everyday musings, shuffled under the living room carpet, ignored yet palpable.

So what is an empty echo? Each word, an impression left in the air. Each promise, an unfinished sentence. The road outside remembers the tracks of vehicles never seen by eyes that stay indoors too long.