Thoughts meander in the hallways, quietly tracing the edges of what was said yesterday or perhaps tomorrow, indistinguishable.
The walls breathe, a phantom sigh, brushing against words left unspoken in the twilight corridors.
The flickering lamplight blinks, not out of fear but a gentle apology for the shadows that dance just behind your shoulder.
Step, step, step... a rhythm not quite your own, the echo of a presence that understands the art of lingering.
Whisper of the Inkwell