"Do you hear that murmur in the corners?" he asked, eyes strained with understanding, voice a mere ghost. I nodded, even if I couldn't hear anything beyond the haunting silence. But it was there, always there — whispering, regretting, teasing. The truth burns, but truth is also a comfort in its brutal honesty.
In the book that never ends, there's a chapter written by dusty fingers. A confession scribbled on parchment untouched by light. These stories haunt the edges, emerging like shadows retreating from dawn when unveiled.
The end is never-ending, never in sight. Secrets climb and crawl through the orbit of whatever we call 'now'.
Unspeakable Truths