The brass doorknob confessed it had seen too much, tracing chronology in the grooves that no hand had ever held properly. "The wallpaper peels at night, my loyal audience," it said, "disclosing love notes from the shadows beneath the floor." Keys, too, spoke of secret rendezvous they unlocked, tales of hidden doors not even the bravest hinges dared to creak.
Even chairs, often viewed as mere resting spots, curled their unseen arms around legacies of whispers. "We are shy participants," murmured the oak seat, "bearing witness to conversations where the world pivots on sentences left unfinished." It cradled not a secret of comfort but rather the embodiment of half-slept dreams.