Woven Whispers

In the twilight hours, when the city's pulse slows, a delicate sound drifts through the door ajar. It's like the last breath of summer wind weaving through the leaves, pulling with it secrets too fragile for sunlight.

Along the corridors of memory, where wallpaper curls with age and settles dust-stills pools of moonlight, stories linger in threads spun by fate. Some proud, some weary, all waiting to be remembered, and perhaps, woven again.

I often sit and listen here, where dream and reality recipe a bouquet of honest longing and hidden laughter. The carpet hums with echoes of lives lived just beyond its fibers. A reminder that nothing truly ends; it only changes shape.