From the fissures of the damp corridor, the walls murmur tales of respect and hierarchy.
"We know the history carved into us—every scratch tells a story," they lament, echoing old
hierarchies drawn by careless hands.
Listen, they say, for our chronicles unfold in shadows and creaks at midnight.
Beneath the clamor of human lives, the ceiling tiles reveal their complicit acceptance of gravity's firm rule. "The secret is endurance," they whisper, "the secret is in holding silent vigil above, never to complain of weight."
When the air stirs, the books perched on shelves confess regret. Their brittle pages hold "stories untold, dreams unsold," they sigh wistfully. "We desire readers, breathers, those who awaken the worlds within."
The floorboards, too, have their secrets, creaking underfoot to complain of the burden of steps taken by the careless. "Dance lightly," they implore, "for our whispers are echoes of your weight."
These stories, these misgivings of silent watchers, cry for consideration. What do they see
that we miss? What remnants of our daily lives imprint permanently upon their surfaces?
Inquiry leads to understanding, they insist.
Further down the path of secrets: Echoes of Wood | Truths of Tile