Once, in the halls of unyielding iron,
the echoes of laughter wound like brass shackles,
clattering—inhabiting a space long forgotten
between the folds of rust and old machine oil.
Beneath the surface, a whisper, phantom footsteps
that crackle, pulse, and then wane away
like the wind sighing through broken gear teeth;
tales of moments etched in time yet unclaimed.
The story of Emily was not meant to be read,
but spooled through the cylinders of her heart’s
last breath in tungsten ether,
waiting—waiting—for the gears to learn.
In the dimmest corner, a rivet-laden breeze,
and with it, the scent of parchment both old and new,
where mechanical butterflies stir in their slumber
and dream—of wheels turning over forgotten pasts.
Stillness claimed the sanctuary they built,
yet through its cracks, a lonely harmonium sighs,
emitting notes of endless lullabies that curl
a comforting mourn to the cogs once more.