Voices Through the Vents

"The semaphores agreed in the silence of clashing clocks," she murmured, pausing within the autumn glen.

Lurch. "Cloaks gathered like whispers," the hollow echoed, threading through forgotten corridors.

Chill. The mannequins knew the hour's sin, their cold faces jade-still in mockery of time.

What the seagulls saw was our blur, a grayscale imprint on shorelines unforgiven.

Linger beneath the attic winds—a veil past improper, speech unclaimed. Enter the tunnel