Above the creaking floorboards, bookshelves whisper truths, unspoken words, fading ink. There lies a tale of dusty secrets stored within tired pages—Oh, the longing of leather spines stretched too wide!
Stacks of tomes confide in shadows, where their rigid bindings unveil confessions of unread letters, yearning for the touch of curious fingers, opening them to forbidden, forgotten knowledge of the unlearned.
Chairs, wooden tales of silent lecture halls, reveal their dreams of caressing student forms, yet remain unmoving, holding regrets of unfinished dialogues, spoken only in the rustling whispers of material seams.
And within every hollow desk, a story hides: of crumbs, lost pencils, and a singular wish—a yearning to hold the warmth of human touch, if only for a fleeting moment. They speak through chipped edges and scratched surfaces.
Did you know the globe spins silently, envious of the stories outside its borders? It harbors silent laments, trapped in a fixed course, dreaming of exotic lands and unwritten paths, cradling the dust of distant dreams.
Whispering Floors | Hidden Ink | Unraveled Tales