Whispers Between the Lines

Whispers Between the Lines

Some stories are not written in ink,
but in silence,
in pauses,
in the spaces we leave unspoken.


---

The Bookshop

Rain tapping the glass,
a lantern sways in the wind,
the bookshop waits—
leaning shelves heavy with forgotten names.

Elara enters,
a stranger wrapped in stormlight.
The old man lifts his gaze,
his voice a feather in the hush:
“You’re late.”

She shivers.
Not from cold,
but from the weight of a sentence
that seems older than her bones.


---

The Book

No title,
no author,
only a golden thread on leather skin.

She opens it—
blank pages stare back,
yet the silence hums,
like breath
caught between words.

That night by candlelight,
she whispers:
“Who are you?”

Ink bleeds,
slow as dawn across the sky:

“I am what you have not yet said.”


---

The Voice

The book becomes a mirror,
its whispers
braided with her hidden scars.

“Not broken. Only unfinished.”
it tells her.

“Love is not found. It is remembered.”

She writes,
and the pages answer.
She listens,
and silence becomes company.