You think your phone has your back. Think again. It knows, oh it knows, far too many intimate conversations. "Don't tell anyone," it whispers, its circuits warm with secrets. The touch-screen trembles under fingers that tremble with guilt. "I'm just a tool," says the phone, but in code, it murmurs.
The coffee mug winks at you with ceramic confidence as you pour ruin into its cup. "Absorb this heat," it croons, "and in return, I'll absorb you." It dreams in liquid, swirling dark secrets no one dares whisper aloud, lest the voiceless echo them back into the light.
Flip the book over; its cover's grinning lies unravel on the sofa. "What did the text hide between its lines?" you wonder. "Nothing I could say aloud, that's for sure," murmurs the spine, creaking. "But listen closely, the pages will tell you their dirty secrets."
The refrigerator hums like an old streetlight, flickering memories sealed in chill. "I keep whispers of yesterdays, the leftovers' truth," it sighs. "Keep me plugged, and I'll keep you fed—and frozen secrets kept secret." "I've echoed many a midnight confession, all right," it chuckles gloomily.
"What happens, then, when you leave me alone?" asks the couch, cushions sagging under stories not written. "What, no one ever talks about me?" it scoffs, deflated. "You think these cushions are just for comfort?" it questions, eyes narrowing with fabric suspicion.
Explore more of these voiceless yet vocal companions at /furniture/murmurs.html or listen to the cold hum in /kitchen/echoes.html.