Hey, have you ever noticed how the wallpaper in those old cafés has a faint, almost ghostly pattern that feels like a story just waiting to be read? It kinda makes me wonder what secrets those faded threads hold.

I get it, the wallpaper feels like a quiet diary. I sometimes think about repainting it, but the old patterns almost whisper their own stories. It’s tempting to give them a fresh coat, yet the fading keeps a kind of soft weight that feels right.