The wooden chair at the edge of the room sits steady, claims its peace yet never quiet. It murmurs longings of winds entangled in its grains.
"We are but echoes of your human dance," it sighs, "let me wander with your spirit in the realm unseen."
The rusted mirror, fractured and hidden, reflects not the present, but the past that never was. It guards visions untold from lovers long lost.
"Reflect me not for what I am, but for what could have been," it laments, "I hold shadows of your secret desires."
The faded book upon the shelf, its pages brittle with age, whispers secrets of the world woven by forces beyond our sight.
"I know truths unspoken, fears unbroken," it confides, "imprisoned within my spine are wishes of the soul."