In the depth of the drawer, I cannot see the dawn, said the closed compass, its needle forever longing for north, whispering tales of forgotten journeys, secrets it should not know. It dreams of sands and ocean whispers, and of a time, I once guided fervent hearts.
The old magazine page, crumpled beyond recognition, murmurs words hidden beneath the ink: "You'd never believe what I've seen," it claims, though its papery voice fades like autumn rain. "I watched lives intertwine, and disperse like shadows at dusk."
Meanwhile, a weather-worn key, twisted and rusty, curls into itself, reflecting on the doors it once opened, the spaces it once secured. Locked away secrets bleed into the ether, whispered by hinges that never creak now, silent and enigmatic.