On the window sill, a dust-laden vase holds the scent of forgotten blooms. The faint aroma drifts like a whisper in the silence, reminding you of summer days when laughter distorted the quiet.
Carved into your stairs, the marks of tiny, unseen feet tell stories of journeys taken in the dark. You tread upon these mysteries with each step, their tales echoing in the hollow places of your home.
The clock ticks steadily, a stubborn guardian against silence. It knows your secrets—those minutes you let slip through the cracks, spent in thought rather than action. The shadow of its hands laughs, softly.
The curtains breathe, releasing the glow of moonlit truths. It is here you find the courage to breathe in those silent screams, unspoken and unseen, but always lingering just behind the veil.
In the kitchen, the knife block stands like an edifice, harboring whispers of what could have been. Each blade a promise, a memory of approach, a pause, then retreat into the safety of routine.