The Whispering Halls

There once was a chair that, in its splintering wood, harbored tales of elopements and secrets shared, whispered confidences woven into its very spine. In the night, it murmurs softly, for those who dare listen, speak of *forgotten* emotions left as currency upon its creaking arms.

The lamp stands vigil, flickering light upon conspiratorial edges, embracing gossip of sidelong glances shared in golden haze. The brass limbs conceal the illusions of softened warmth, where forgotten numbers hold hands with unlit darkness.

A mirror, silvered edges cracked by time’s negotiations, tells of reflections briefly meeting truths. Through its glass, one sees not oneself but the nameless resolutions etched in unreal glow, barriers broken in eerie silence.

Each object in the hall weighs the *value* of its silent veracity, record-keepers of unbargained soul-charges. In their company, one learns that these prices have often been too steep for fleeting owners wishing transient victories.