The door creaks a little, doesn't it? Echoing in the hollow chamber. Or is it just in my head? A question without an answer. The walls whisper, they do, and I listen. Do you hear them too? In the quietude, the shadows dance, shadows that belong to no one. They belong to everyone, to no end and no beginning. To a journey, perhaps.
Footsteps on the staircase, but no one is there. Maybe I am not here either. This place, this moment, it stretches like an elastic memory. The past is a story, the future a promise, and the present... a flickering light in the darkness, a candle in the wind. But the wind is calm, isn't it? And the candle whispers secrets only it knows.
There's a rhythm, a pulse. The heartbeat of time against the hollow walls. Time is a thief, they say, but it leaves treasures behind when it steals away. Forgotten dreams, silent screams, woven into the fabric of space. I find solace in the chaos, in the symphony of echoes. A denouement, not of plot, but of existence itself.