Years drifted like autumn leaves, detaching from the old oak of his memory. Each whispered secret carried through the corridors of Wide Valley House formed a pattern, much like an inscrutable tapestry, intricate and woven from silence.
If you'd press your ear against the ancient wood, you could hear the sonorous murmurings of centuries, echoing, reflecting. Anna had once said such vibrations were merely a trick of the wind, yet Lucas had always known better.
The truth may linger behind the flimsiest of curtains, ever out of reach, teasingly insistent.
Along the timbered hall, where time itself slants at peculiar angles, they discovered an unmarked doorway. It exuded an impression of hushed alterity, like a book forgotten not by neglect, but by care.
Opening it, they weren't greeted by dust and decay, but by illumination—golden and ephemeral, wrapping them in its embrace. It offered warmth, though a cold reminder tingled the spine: the illumination was real, but only half-truth.
Follow the Murmurs