They speak only in shadows and echoes; the inevitable confessions of inanimate sentinels, stationed in the corners of our existence. The mirror, an unsuspecting observer, holds their secrets in fragmented reflections.
From the desk drawer, a rusted stapler mutters tales of unfulfilled documents and abandoned contracts. Its whispers are filled with sorrow, for each staple binds not paper, but dreams left unbound. Hear more tales.
The old armchair, worn by countless sitters, recalls the intimate conversations of souls at rest. Scandals told in hushed tones, sealed within the fabric, it knows the unspoken truths better than we do. Discover its secrets.
The mirror, a silent accomplice, reflects none of the truth, yet distorts each confession into a riddle. It invites you to peer deeper, where reality fringes on dreams.