Whispers of the Forgotten
The stones speak in murmurs, don't they? Almost like they're telling tales of the old ones.
I heard it last week while wandering those hidden passages. They said something about a door...
but never showed where it lay.
Sounds echo in places not meant for light. Shadows gather, curious, in corners unvisited by the sun.
Did you hear the song? I swear it came from the rafters like a lullaby for the lost.
Recollections of the Shelters
These wooden structures have ears, you know. They listen to the secrets
of the wind and the songs of the rain. Each drop a note, composing symphonies
in the silence we often ignore.
I used to think they were just echoes of crazy folks ranting. But there's
a rhythm to their madness that makes sense—like a dance of thoughts long
buried in the earth.
The Lunatic's Corner
"The bats, the bats! They guard the entrances and sing for the moon. But the wise owl...
the wise owl keeps the true path safe for wanderers." It was him—old man Henry—who whispered
that yesterday beneath the sagging beams. Always Henry and his mythical creatures, watchful
and vigilant.
Did you bring the lantern? I told you, the light flickers but the darkness dances.
Into the corridors, we go—where walls absorb the sound, and memories become tactile,
breathing, alive, with stories of their own.
Footnotes on paper torn from yesterday's thoughts...