Once, a whisper fluttered through the attic, laden with dust and longing.
Memories unspooled like thread, each decay a delicate sigh.
The old clock stood still, hands frozen, yet time murmured a distant warning.
Somewhere, a child giggled unnoticed, their laughter bound in a web of shadows.
She painted the walls with thoughts, smudging reality with the hues of yesterday's light.
But the breeze swept in, unraveling colors into nothingness, murmuring secrets of inertia.
Can you hear the echoes, softly trailing away? Follow the threads.
Yet, the corridors remain vacant. Forgotten doors at the end of silence. Open one?
Time distorts. Perception flickers like moths around the flame of decay, unspoken words recovered from the earth’s breath.
There lies the chaos of what was...