Untold Stories

In a mansion of weathered wood, the dusk settles like a shroud. It creeps through the leaded panes, and wraps around the silent sound. In the library, shadows pool and cling, dust motes dance in the fading light. I trace the spines of forgotten tales, and a phantom hunger takes flight. The air is thick with stories untold, a whisper of worlds that could be. I yearn to lend my voice to the fold, to set my spirit gloriously free. But the silence echoes in the gloom, a hollow truth I cannot unsee. The dust on my fingers, a final tomb, for the writer I'll never be.