The echo of footsteps, soft and hesitant, treads the wooden halls of this old house. Some say they belong to the past, a whisper of what once was. Others think they're simple tricks of the mind—nothing more than the wind playing games with shadows.
Every morning, the path in the hallway appears to have shifted, leading into rooms long untouched, dust gathering in quiet corners. No one is sure when this started, just like no one can recall the first time they heard the whispers, a gentle susurration like wind through reeds.
It's in these moments, alone with the sounds, that stories find their way into the cracks of reality—a mother's lullaby, a child's laughter, conversations held long ago, and forgotten.
Murmurs of Time Echoes of Light Trace of Shadows