The room held its breath, a sanctuary for echoes that never arrived. Somewhere in the corners, shadows whispered tales of beginnings.
What does it mean to be quiet? To listen to the absence of sound like a vow? Or perhaps it's about understanding the void as an invitation to something profound.
Walls once flushed with conversations now embraced vacant spaces. Each creak of the floorboards a reminder of steps once taken, paths now rerouted.
In the absence, I find myself tracing outlines of what never materialized. Here, every breath is a note in a symphony of solitude.
Truth rests in these empty confines, where stories waft like dust in shafts of forgotten light. The genesis of quietude—a tranquil paradox that lingers, waits to be defined.