in the corners of existence, where echoes dwell among particles of forgotten dust...
The old chair, once squeaky with laughter, confesses...
"I bore the weight of secrets—returning from trips not taken."
The always-writing pen scattered tales in darkness...
"Endings began before ink dried to whisper my secrets."
The mirror retains unspoken reflections...
"I shatter time, careless of the myriad choices behind bland expressions."