Shadows lingering in rooms forgotten, whispers against walls, flowing like tides over sunken ships. A distant pulse, maybe breath, thrumming against stone, though who is left to listen, who speaks to the chisel marks of time, incised into the glabella of slate.

Tracers of the past against cobwebbed screens, capturing distant glances of spectral memories, never meant to last, slipping like grains through converging minutes. There in the corner lies spilled ink, swallowing words before their birth, before opening into whispers of long dead lanterns embracing obscured mantles.

Do you hear that? A rustle, the breath of one uninvited, echoes the porch, swaying curtains part to welcome forms unseen. Shoes on old boards, wanting to speak, wishful sighs; every heel asks timid tongues uncertain.