The window drapes, cloaked in dust's embrace, sigh their tales of dreams unkempt. Silk threads murmur regrets of a life beyond threads, too tightly woven, too often neglected.
Behind the static sheen of a clock's facade, hid whispers of the hour no one caught. Rust inscribes lore, ticking louder than the foundry's hymn, sleeping against the hands that sculpt time's realm.
In the creak of floorboards, a symphony of desires, unspooled like the coil of dreams. Feet dance unwitting, stepping softly over soul tales, nailed in truth, hidden beneath veneer of innocence.
Glances exchanged by ancient doorknobs, polished by the caress of oil's deceit. Secrets turned hinges to worlds unseen, a silent protest against the passing time masked as mundane.