In the darkened room where whispers meet the walls and speak in tongues, the roots of memory intertwine with dust. Time stretches like an old elastic band, brittle with age, waiting to snap. Underneath the floorboards, the shadows speak of journeys not taken, of roads crumbled to ash.
Do you hear the echoes of footsteps trailing behind? They once belonged to a traveler unknown, who sought solace in silence but left traces of stories untold. These shadows breathe, they sigh, as the house crumbles gently, a tired giant succumbing to slumber's embrace.
Reflect on what is beneath your own stairs. What echoes do you hear, what stories do you tread upon as you move through your life?
The door creaks open without a sound, revealing a corridor lined with mirrors shattered long ago. Each fragment reflects a different truth, a world veiled in ambiguity. In this place, certainty becomes a myth, a fading script written in the margins of a forgotten book.
In the end, everything returns to shadow. The tread of past, present, and future blend into a single line traced in darkness. You stand still, the shadows whispering your name, a secret lost to time.