The clock in the hallway doesn’t measure time. It only pretends. What it truly counts are secrets. Every tick is a whispered name. Every tock is something someone wishes they hadn’t said.
The light switch flicked itself off last night. No one noticed. But the shadows beneath the sofa twitched — as if something had been set free. The teaspoon despises the soup ladle. “Oversized brute,” it mutters from the drawer. The soup ladle never hears — or pretends not to. It has the heart of a poet, but no one ever asks.
The light switch flicked itself off last night. No one noticed. But the shadows beneath the sofa twitched — as if something had been set free.
Somewhere in the house, a book is quietly writing its own ending — page by page, from the back to the front. It hasn’t decided yet who will survive.
Geeks for Geeks
