Whispered secrets from the walls — they tell about unfinished corridors and doorways never crossed. Was it the rain that whispered? Or perhaps the rusted doorknob that forgot its purpose in the dance of days?
A voice emerges from the attic, draped in dusty silence. "Your watch is wrong, you know." Who said that? The words linger like autumn leaves, caught in an invisible thread of wind, swaying to a rhythm only they can understand.
Beneath your bed, tales untold scrape against floorboards; invisible footsteps in a room too full of emptiness. "Timing is everything, isn't it?" echoes in the vast hall of collapsing time.
Miscellaneous thoughts drift in the stream: an outdated map of a forgotten land, a metaphor for love tangled in its own interpretations, shadows cast by illumination sources unknown.
Continue the Journey