In the dim-lit corners of forgotten rooms, beneath layers of dust, the old clock ticks not for time, but for the tales of betrayal it harbors. Gwen never replaced the batteries, and here it waits, whispering secrets of reluctant clocks who wander endlessly lost in sunbeams.
Shelves creak with the weight of books that wish they could speak, their spines cracked not by stories told, but by dreams untold, of wandering nightmares caught between chapters, yearning for release in the echoing silence.
Beneath the old desk, files rustle, trapped in a waltz with dust, revealing the dirty secrets of a past that never was, of loves letters never sent, of words locked in the labyrinth of forgotten drawers.
Enter the Shadows Echoes' Whispers Other Interior Voices