Nebula Night Secrets

The old bookshelf creaks with envy, its dreams dust-laden and ink-stained. Imagine, it whispers, pages it never turned, cloaked amid commercialization's gentle warping.

Flickering softly, the forgotten brass lamp laments the absent warmth in unlit evenings. It clings to fragments of evening solace—"they sit in shadows," mutters the movie-ticket stub lodged beneath its base, content in isolation.

It speaks of laughter and lingering chaise-scented confessions with the old rug by the window. Pile after pile, woven secrets of the realm; its fibers interlock like promises made long ago, their tempests calmed now beneath too-heavy quietude of mountain moonlight.