A dimly lit room, its corners kissed by shadows, houses a single soul immersed in whispers of recollections. Here, time balloons inward, holding moments close, stretching breaths between heartbeats. Outside, the world spins, relentless in its orbit, yet here, inside, the only movement is the slow dance of the dust motes.
The clock, an old sentinel, ticks its steady rhythm—a heartbeat of its own—unseen and unbothered. Occasionally, its sound melds with the soft rustle of pages being turned, where words breathe life into stories waiting to be lived. These are stories of captured glances, hushed confessions, of sunlight streaming through morning fog. Here, breathing is the only act with purpose.