In the depths of each nocturnal whisper, an echo resides, spoken by tired inanimate souls. Their voices collect like fallen leaves upon the shore, curried by the hands of unseen gyres.
"I whisper through corridors like forgotten rain. I wear walls, and ceilings cabin me like shackles.
The dust of decades builds upon my tongue, seeking escape where only silence prevails."
— The Old Bookcase.
Beneath tongue and timber, lie stories unspooled by hands indifferent to the weaving. Listen closely, for the murmuring tide consolidates into breathless crescendos.