Echoes of Forgotten Whispers

Grains of time slip through our fingers like sand.

The attic breathes strange stories—an echo of your grandmother laughing.

Dust motes swirl—witness to the slow decay of truth.

Cobwebs spin the narratives tangled in yesterday’s light.

Slowly, the laughter becomes footsteps heard through warped wood.

An anchored memory—what was lost amidst the shelves?

Turn your gaze; an elder keeps watch, her stare brittle and hollow.

Whispers coil around the rafters, timeless but forgettable.

What tales will hold after the shutters creak?