It's a strange thing, standing at the inner edge of familiarity. You hear things — or maybe it's just yourself thinking out loud.
Picture this: a hallway with walls that have seen better days, peeling paint here and there like memories grappling with forgetfulness. Shadows dance as the sun spills in through high windows, casting long fingers across the dusty floor.
An old wooden chair sits there, left behind by time or perhaps an afterthought. Sometimes, you sit, sometimes you don't. When you do, the creaking of the wood matches the whispered secrets of the walls.
Do you hear that? It's the echo of possibilities — choices made, paths crossed. Or maybe just echoes . . . echo . . .
Take a left at the corridor's bend and you might find yourself in the museum of recollections. Or turn right and stumble into a garden of shadowed truths.
This space, it's like a bookmark in a book half-remembered. Are you reading, or merely letting the words wash over you?