In the breath of rustling leaves and the gentle sigh of the curling wind, the aged voices of forgotten keepsakes whisper. They murmur their clandestine stories—the secret lives they led, unwrapped only to those curious enough to listen.
I am the keeper of unsung dreams, crumpled amidst cobwebs and dust—a drawer, a humble plane of wood scarred by time. Beneath my splintered lid lie letters never sent, epistles of lovers estranged by time's cruel hand. I murmur of candle-lit confessions whispered between shadowy silhouettes, of promises bloomed then withered—an eternal serenade of desires hidden too deeply, now exposed only to the eager explorer of my depths. Listen further.
I flickered once in joyous embrace, illuminating merry gatherings beneath star-specked skies. Now, my flame is a memory, an echo of glow captured in fragile glass. My cries are of laughter turned to dusk, of warmth freezing into the frost of solitude. Moss have draped my form, but within me simmers the soft whisper of torchlight dancing. Rekindle the light.