The walls are paper-thin, and the whispers seep through like daylight in a forgotten passage. Listen closely.
And then there is the echo, a phantom of your voice that calls from the darkened niches—calling for what, one never knows. Inside, there are whispers more persistent than truths spoken aloud.
In these corridors, a dialogue unfolds. It's not spoken, not written—merely felt between the spaces of everyday conversations. A corridor opens where none was thought to exist.