Daylight seeps through worn fabric, whispers of the outside world tickle the dusty threads. Voices of a kind we scarcely hear, musings of the curtains, tracing lines in the air.
Conversations trapped in the folds, static memories unraveling slowly, like the skeins of yarn unraveling in the hands of anxious knitters. Why do we seal ourselves in these walls? The curtains ponder, asking questions they already know the answers to.
There's a certain comfort in being the silent witnesses, the jury of one, two, or an entire universe concealed behind a thin layer of fabric. Shadows dance to the old stories told by the sun, and sometimes, they hear echoes of lives lived beyond the folds.