The clock languishes, its hands frozen in the amber of time. In this alcove, thoughts weather like autumn leaves – voices echo softly, a tapestry woven from whispers, just out of reach. Here, the world's breath is a gentle caress of forgotten syllables.
Footsteps trace their ghostly paths over floors untrodden, scattering embers where no fire flickers. Imprints settle in epochs unseen, basking in the solitude of an endless corridor draped in echoes of knowing.
An old desk stands prestidigitating with shadows cast by memories, swaying to an unseen fable. Its edges are sharp, like the wits of long-lost confidants who bent low to speak the truths that skitter to the floor like marbles fallen from a child's grasp.
Entwined, the light and shadow dance silently, their choreography a forget-me-not memoir inscribed with the hands of ethereal midnight soliloquies. You could step forward, but they pull back like lovers in Vonnegut's dreams.