The floors creak beneath tentative steps, the kind only made when one expects to find something long forgotten. The air is thick, almost tangible, with breathless anticipation as every corner seems to cradle secrets—disassembled truths scattered across the cold tiles.
As I walk, sounds catch in the quiet, echoes of lives once lived brushing against my own. There are sighs, like the last gasps of hope, weaving through the walls, forming a tapestry of murmurs that narrate stories untold. I strain to listen, attempting to decode their resonance as it tapestries itself into patterns unimaginable.
It is in these patterns that I seek meaning, just as I seek solitude amidst the whispers. Am I the last witness, or merely the next?
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