An infinite iota of time.

Pauses like dusk—

An urge to listen, but who speaks? Silence replies.

The amber whispers through the air—a veil untouched seeps in.

...and then, the clock slows.

Nothing written, yet everything speaks...

Beyond the door, not warmed by any sun. A smell, perhaps, of old paper decays.

Time hesitates at the threshold.