In the quiet corners of the universe, where the dust dances softly in golden rays, we find the awakened heart of an object. It shivers with echoes of passion, its soul knit tightly with whispers of lovers long ago, etched in eternity's embrace.
Do you recall the awakening light? It breathed life into your touch, sparking momentary bliss in the forgotten air. How your fingers traced its contours, longing to voice the unspoken song it held. Together, they sang stories of desire, yet to be spoken aloud.
Somehow, the table remembers. A mere spectator, it holds within its grain the sighs of tender summers and melancholic winters. Objects awaken upon the gentle brush of skin; voiceless they stand, yet infinitely verbose in the language of memory and touch.