Perched atop the mahogany, a forgotten candle spills liquid remnants too shy to be shy: "I melt, but I hide not my glow."
In the corner, a vase made of promises lost years ago murmurs low: "A fragment of a flower, and I've lived in splendor."
Beneath the dusty table, a book with pages stained by secret touches between covers exposes its shames: "The dust loves my stories more than the wind does."
Murmurings of the Silent Beasts