Lamplight's Lament: Weak from the hollow flicker, it stills my spectral glow, terrified of the encroaching night. I hold the secrets of ages, sworn to illumination, though my wax exudes only sorrow and the soot-weaved truth of quiet eternity.
Door Handle's Tale: I turn, twist, and rotate, an endless cycle. The user knows not that it is my whispering strengths, my betrayal of advantage, that grants passage. Each inlet confesses me secrets not meant for mortals; yet I am compelled to grant entry.
Creaking Floorboard: I observe beneath bunks and broken chairs. I see the children’s games, the ambitions masked behind innocently clouded creature disguises. Each creak reveals portions of the tale never woven into the fabric of the now, a chiaroscuro of pathos unseen.