Walking the Corridors
Once, in the vast and echoing corridors—where the floors are made of nothing but whispers and the walls hold secrets like ghosts—there was a door. No ordinary door, mind you, but one carved with opalescent treasures, glimmering in the sunless light.
The Echo of Untold Tales
I remember the tales whispered by the inhabitants of the corridors, fragments of lives woven together like threads in a tapestry unwoven:
"She was here, and then she wasn't," they'd say, voices trailing like fog in the early morning light.
Patience is but a river, flowing...
Dreams are the sole currency of the corridors, exchanged like coins in the palm of a wandering spirit.
An endless library of unwritten stories fills these walls, labyrinthine passages marked by shadows and echoes:
A soft glow emanates from pages that have never been turned.
If only to... if only to understand the words etched in silence, despair flickering like the last ember in a fireplace that remembers warmth.
Whispers of the Door's Key
There is a key, you know, but only found by those who walk with closed eyes. It jingles merrily
echoing through corridors where no footsteps fall but when it does, the stories unfold and the memories knit themselves anew...