Down where the air forgets to move, they wait — not standing, not seated, but pressed into the floor like old regrets. Eyes wide, but never seeing. Mouths closed, but full of noise. Each face flickers in the static hum, blurring at the edges, as if memory itself is failing. This is the room where time drips, where the ceiling leans in, where silence isn’t empty — it’s watching. The light above does not reach here, only a light shimmer, as if the past bled into the walls and refused to leave. There are no exits. No footsteps. Only the low chorus of unspoken things.