You think your pages hold poems of love but listen closely; they murmur tales of betrayal in ink stains, secrets of unfinished thoughts, yearning for the touch of a forgotten hand. There’s more than just lines—there’s longing. Would you cast it aside knowing it holds desires that echo in secret corners?
Beneath the lacquer lies a world of whispers. The table, sturdy and quiet, holds confessions of conversations shared in hushed tones. It knows more than it lets on about strength tested under quiet shadows, the betrayals clothed in casual embraces. It's more than wood and glue; it's an understanding brought low by time and tide. Can you forsake this history, this intimacy?
Flickering flames can tell you about the darkened souls they warm. They crave not the cold embrace of wax as you might think but the steady burn of secrets even darkness cannot conceal. With every drip, they echo warmth fading into cool solitude—offering a reprieve for secrets too hot to remain untold. Do they reveal too much, or too little, to hold your gaze?