Phantom Dust Observed

Strange how the windows creak, like ancient trees murmuring secrets, or perhaps it’s the whispers of forgotten memories trapped in the dust motes above the light. \
I remember, or perhaps not, the feeling of something once alive, crawling through the corners of this room, touching and then gone, a fleeting caress on a cheeklong forgotten in time. \
Sometimes I sit and listen to the stories the walls tell, if you press your ear close to the peeling paint you can hear the echoes of laughter, or maybe they're screams – who's to say laughter and pain don't wear the same mask in the dark? \
There's a smell of old books, but I never see the books, just their ghosts in the air, writing things I cannot read. They whisper constantly, a stream of consciousness from a lost soul. \
Do you hear it too? Or is it just a sound only I can perceive? A melody of broken glass and rusty hinges, playing on repeat. \
And outside, the world feels so far away, like a dream just out of reach. What is real and what is illusion? These questions chase themselves in circles, flitting like shadows at dusk. Time, a line scratched carelessly in the sand, washes away and leaves only the indelible imprint of phantom dust.