The walls of this old house never seem to be silent. They murmur softly when a gust of wind slips through the cracked windows, carrying voices from a time long gone. Sometimes, they tell stories of laughter that once filled the rooms, now abandoned. Other times, there's a deeper echo, a reminder of footsteps that have long since faded away.

One wall in particular draws your attention. It's more worn than the others, its surface rough and bare in patches. Here, the whispers seem to congregate, forming coherent snippets that slice through the static. "Find the way," they urge, "before the silence takes over."

As you approach, a chill skitters down your spine. You place your hand against the cool surface, expecting an ordinary touch, but are met with a pulse, rhythmic and alive. It's as if the wall is breathing, holding its secrets close yet yearning to share them with you.

You sit beside it and close your eyes, letting the whispers wash over you. Images dance in your mind; a child with a paper kite, a couple waltzing in a room filled with suns rays, a solitary figure tracing patterns in the dust. Every moment captured, every sound cherished until it faded into the ether, leaving behind only echoes and shadows.