A gentle rustle of words, inaudible yet persistent, linger in the air like the aftertaste of a dream.
Between the splintered connections of mahogany grains, lies a story untold, woven through the parchment thin fibers of narrative that stretch from when time was just a seam unstitched demanding the hand of an artisan to complete its fabric, and in that space, moments collapse in on themselves, creating a petri dish for reverent silence.
The whispers here are memory's echoes, encapsulated in the dust that dances in the afternoon's golden shaft.
The labyrinth ascends as one ponders— are these but words, or whispers of a desk that knows the carved histories of hands that have sought solace in its embrace, seeking knowledge or perhaps just a refuge from the tangible, a chasm wherein the old and the new exchange glances, winks, and knowing nods?