Do you ever sit in a room and feel like the walls are holding conversations just out of earshot? I was there, sipping tea, when the echoes began. Not the kind that repeats your words, but whispers of melodies played long ago, secretly recorded beneath the overtures of life as it is now.
Once upon a time, there was a library in the heart of a city that grew around it, brick by brick, secret by secret. Each book, sealed with a forgotten history, bore traces of stories half-told, secrets whispered into the margins by those who dared not leave their names. The librarian called them "palimpsests of erased histories," a phrase lingered in the air like the last notes of a symphony.
*A palimpsest: a manuscript or piece of writing material on which later writing has been added but of which the original writing has been preserved.
You can almost hear them, can't you? The echoes of harmonics, rising and falling with the breath of the past. Ask the walls, ask the books, and they might just share a few of their whispered notes. Or perhaps, you’d rather wander further into their labyrinthine thoughts?