Rusty Time

Above lies the attic wherein dust-throne moths waltz with abandoned pasts. Shadows murmur to the wind, offering brittle sermons on decay and ephemerality.

Footsteps echo into eternity... or do they? an unsettling rhythm composed upon treacherous floors. The sound, isolated, a thread of a sinister symphony, plays on repeat.

We drift, spectres ourselves, borne upon the languid stream of time unbound. The rooms never end. The walls themselves sigh as if contemplating eternities forsaken.

Once, the clock ticked. Now it only rustes. Its hands are limp, placated against the ceaseless march of waning influence. Past the hallway, it falters, lost in a maze of repetitive moments.