"Did you hear that whisper?", she asked, leaning against the dusty frame. The echo danced on the edge of the walls, like ghostly figures mingling with silence.
We always think words have weight, but in this room, they are like feathers, floating gracefully until they settle softly into the shadows.
The wind carries stories, or does it? Sometimes, it's just air playing tricks on our ears, inviting us to remember something we never knew we forgot.
Ever sat alone in a place where the past murmurs? The ceiling cobwebs pull reflections down into whispers, and there, the present folds like mischief.
The room speaks, even when no one is listening, but the stories it tells are confined to the air. Stretch, bend, and embrace the atmospheres between what's said and what's left unsaid, right?
We linger. We listen. And that's where the time folds, like sheets of paper, each crease a narrative in the whisper of winds.
In the margins of this page, there's a thought, a mere echo waiting to be traced. Why not explore further? These walls hold mysteries yet untold.