It was dusk, the kind that drapes a room in shadows: "Have you heard the whispering in the walls?" she asked. And I thought about how paint peels with such a tedious grace.
Dust motes danced in the half-light, a ballet forgotten, "It's always been here, hasn't it?" she smiled, though her eyes never left the cracks on the floor.
I nodded, but the truth was lost somewhere between wallpaper patterns of yesteryears and daydreams unspooled.
There's a room, locked away behind memories, untold. The key's been gone as long as yesterday's promises, or maybe today’s?
Once, it held stories and soft echoes, now just the sound of keys jingling on empty pedestals.