In the morning light, shadows dance upon the walls. Ever silent, ever present, they tell stories whispered in the corners of memory.
Once, a shadow lingered longer than the rest. It held a shape, a silhouette, of things not spoken—of dreams half-formed and thoughts unshared.
Here, in the quiet, the tapestry of shadows weaves itself anew. A reflection, perhaps, of what we dare not say, of moments left unsaid.