In the twilight of a room, where shadows hum in syllables, the echoes of oak and whispers of velvet speak.
Chairs that never sat, tables that never rested, linger in the hollows. Their presence, like dreams of forgotten upholstery, reverberating in the empty rooms of the mind.
Echoes breathe through cracks in illusory wood, murmuring secrets beneath invisible cushions. One could almost hear the stories of silent footfalls, ink whispering beneath ink.
Would you dare to find what lies beneath their spectral veneers? Enter another hall Phantom Objects