"I have, in my wiry heart, the confessions of ages past," murmurs the parched lamp, shivering with each touch of dusty memory and singing winds.
The calendar sins in secret, each tick a tremor, revealing forgotten dates' embrace. Beneath its cracked surface, visions of desires unravel, breaths pent between grainy pages cry out the names never whispered above the night’s tranquil horizon.
The porcelain vase, a sentinel of silence, weeps when dusk drapes her over shoulders anew. "My cradled blooms," she murmurs, "know of heartfelt things not meant for earthly eardrums, but cherished shadows can hold a heavier truth."
Partake in other whispered sagas, where boundaries of tactile mythors merge once more: