Have you ever noticed how whispers cling? Like shadows in the corners, waiting for daylight to turn them into mere memories.

There's an echo here, you know. Of words spoken long before, trailing like phantom breaths across the walls. Open a drawer and maybe it will spill some secrets.

It's in the cracks of silence, the hushed voices you never quite catch. Almost like... tick-tocks of clocks that don't exist anymore.

Wander through these whispers, weaving in and out like a boat on foggy waters. What do they say? What tales do they tell?