In the hollow embrace of what used to echo laughter, a single chair stood resolute in the center. Its canary yellow finish faded to a soft whisper of what once shone, a beacon for friends that would gather to share stories spun from golden threads.
Margery recalled how last year, they spoke of forgotten lands — Ismith was insistent, an obscure artifact making its origin compelling, enigmatic. You could feel its cool surface when he gestured wildly, yet its true depth lay beyond mere tactile experience.
The room's emptiness now bridged by phantom voices, like ripples across a pond returning ever to the stillness of a solitary shore. Margery traced the contours of the chair, her fingers remembering a warmth long dispersed into the cool night's air.
Days of Summer Whispering Echoes Reflections in Solitude