Upon the shores where whispers breathe, lies an ancient mansion engulfed in mist. Its halls, once vibrant with laughter, now hold the murmurs of time, reverberating with footsteps of the past.
"This way," she gestured, her voice a mere shadow of sound. But the hallway knew, as it always did, the rhythm of unyielding time.
The mahogany doors creak, an age-old symphony, and the air, thick with the scent of forgotten tales, drapes itself over visitors like a familiar cloak.
In Room 312, the floorboards whisper secrets—of summer dances, of spinning tales by firelight, of memories captured in the echo of a forgotten melody. The walls lean in, listening, as if they too long for the voices that once filled their space.
Follow the Whispers