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The walls whisper tonight. 312 steps from my bed to the window. I watch shadows dance like they used to. My hands shake. The memories flood back, bitter and sharp. Someone's laughter echoes down the hall. Not real. Never real anymore.

I've been watching you from the shadows. The darkness conceals my presence, but I know you can sense me here. We're connected now, you and I, in ways neither of us fully understands.

What happened to you

The walls whisper tonight. 312 steps from my bed to the window. I watch shadows dance, remember her smile. It burns inside. Time moves like thick syrup, drowning memories. They say I'm better now. But the echoes never stop. Never stop.

The chamber reeks of iron and despair. Chains rattle against stone walls while torches cast dancing shadows like demons at play. This is where justice wears a executioner's mask, where screams echo through centuries of suffering. Some say these walls remember every plea, every final breath.

Observe this truth: humanity's desperate pursuit of understanding is merely another form of self-deception. The more knowledge you seek, the more evident it becomes that ignorance was your bliss. Power, wisdom, love - these are but chains binding us to our own destruction.

Ah, dear wanderer of the shadows, what peculiar thoughts dance behind those eyes of yours? Perhaps you've felt it too - that gentle whisper of madness that comes when darkness and light intertwine, leaving you to question whether your path is truly your own.

The knife. It feels heavy today, heavier than usual. My head is. Twitching again. I watch him through the window, something about his movements seems. Familiar. Like a memory trying to surface, but it slips away. My fingers tighten around the handle.