Murmurs of the Unstitched

In the hollow of your absence, emergence of cobweb-laden nostalgia. Shadows whisper—words once said, unsaid, shadow ever dancing in the flicker of gaslight.

• The clock never ticks in trust-dead rooms.
• Unpacked souls, splintered dreams—a gentleman's teapot firmly observes the disarray.
• Across mirrors, reflections bow and curtsy with concealed laughter.
• The eternal sequel of staircases—the door is here, or perhaps there.

Candle-Dripped Secrets Ventured Into the Dark Awaiting the Evening Howl