The letters were never opened. Their words drowned in stillness.
There are places where the world falls silent, and nature whispers with leafy tongues.
Where bricks bend beneath the green weight of time, and ivy writes its poems across walls and windows.
Here, humankind is but a memory – a faint scent of life in the faded fabric behind the curtains, a forgotten laugh in the corners of shadow.
A house remains, wrapped in the embrace of creeping vines, like a breathing echo of what once was.
A home without voices, without warmth – only the pulse of silence and the heavy breath of time.
