Unseen Walkways

Among dusty shelves, the books whisper:
"Unfolding pages, we script lives with hidden truths—yet, who reads the margins of our silences?"

The clock on the wall confides:
"Tick tock is my chant. Do you know eternity wears a face of rust and hands that pause?"

The old chair creaks:
"I bear the weight of stories untold, yet the warmth of your absence clings tighter than your presence."