The walls of the old estate are believed to hold stories - symphonies written in silence, encapsulated in paint-stroked layers and silent echoes. Once grand, now veiled in velvet dust. The air is thick, quiet yet alive.
You venture closer, drawn by a melody only you can sense. It hums beneath the surface, a tune not played by instruments, but sculpted from the whispers between bricks, a clandestine symphony. Each wall a witness, each creak a chorus line of history.
A lingering note, a key suspended in time, invites your touch. You reach out as pale fingers reach through the cracks, each a note in a language long forgotten.
Symphonies tell tales of voyages, of hearts entwined in polka-dots and sonatas. Do you hear it? The tender dissonance, a world held in a breath, teetering on the precipice of a world unknown?
Lose yourself in their cadence, the quiet insistence of walls waiting, whispering, advising. Their counsel is woven, a tapestry of refrains going unheard by common ears.
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