Light slips through dusted windows. It doesn’t illuminate — it settles in corners, rests on frames, lingers in the folds of heavy fabric. Everything is touched by a thin layer of time. The floor creaks softly, as if it still remembers the weight of footsteps. The air is still, yet something of someone remains.

Sandalwood smells of warm wood, smooth and worn, untouched for years. Ladan is a shadow on velvet — resinous, dark, almost like skin. Not a scent, but an imprint.

Nothing happens here. And yet, in this silence, everything speaks.