The staircase, clinging to the rafters of forgotten dreams, whispers through its corridors. Countless chapters hidden in the seams of the walls, lost stories that never saw the light of ink. Once, they could have danced upon the pages, leaping from mind to quill, but remained trapped.
In the hallway, silence reverberates through the void, and in its echo, a reflection takes shape. A silhouette forms—yours? Mine? Conceived by the contemplation of what could have been, weaving tales in the interstice of being and not. It becomes a melody of unwritten words.
Captured here, in the hollow breath of absence, stand the hallways of past and future juxtaposed. Every door leads to dimensions unexplored, each step an invitation to imagine the possibilities that path not taken might have unfolded.
The walls are mirrors, the floors a canvas of echoes, and so you listen. You turn to face what the void reveals. It speaks in shades of memory and shadow, each hue a chapter untouched, an invitation still unopened.
The silence does not hunger for sound, it thrives in the space between breaths, creating an oasis of void. Here is the essence—perfect, pristine. A blank page, a potent possibility, yearning for a story yet unwritten.