Within this curated ledger, names without faces hover:

"We are but shadows," spoke the carpet, "yet embrace the light within."

Nestled deep in silent whispers, they are echoes without end, frail and yet unwavering.

The chandeliers flicker, a nod to ancient trust, as they swath in golden gravity—a dance erratic.

"What is your path, O dust of stars?" asked the oblivion-bound shelf.

To every leaf, a tale of autumn unwritten, to every void, a lexicon of the unheard.