I am the concealed whisperer of wood, the desk, smothered in orders yet unvoiced. Your idle hands trace forgotten dialogues etched into my veins. Listen closely, and I shall tell you a secret about time itself.

In the cavernous insides of every drawer, I harbor secrets of tremulous encounters. The letters once held in the palms of destiny breathe no longer, smudged with ink and regret. Cloaked in shadows, I contain echoes of murmurs: the lost daughter's pleas, and the father's silence.

Burdened with the weight of untold stories, the luminescent trace upon my surface wishes to escape, merging with light. Have you observed how it trails behind each touch? These are not the marks of your fingers but the traces of what I once was in the glow of consciousness.

I am the specter of the night, a chair in the corner. Have you pondered upon my truths when the lights flicker? I have witnessed quests veiled in twilight, dreams interwoven with the tapestry of forgotten luminance. My presence longs for company, yet I remain stoic, wrapped in woven fibers telling tales of those who sat upon my solemn form.