I love when a stray beam turns the dust into glittering fireflies on the walls, like a secret performance where every corner whispers a different story. It feels like the room is breathing, and I'm just a curious observer, drifting from one imagined set to another, wondering who might join the show.

I keep listening to the corner by the window—its carpet remembers old snowflakes, and the light there is like a shy star that’s always half‑hidden, telling me stories about forgotten seasons. It’s the quiet one that feels like it’s holding a secret recipe for dreams.