In quiet halls where shadows creep,
A ghost stirs softly from its sleep.
Its whisper rides the evening air,
A trace of something once lived there.
A fleeting presence, pale and light,
It drifts between the day and night.
No footsteps sound, no voice is heard,
Yet in the silence, it’s assured.
The ghost, a memory wrapped in time,
A life once held, but couldn’t last.
A specter lost where time divides.
A silent force, a willful chill.
In every echo, it remains—
A ghost’s soft touch, without its chains.
About the Creator
Abbas
Versatile writer skilled in both tale & stories. Captivate readers with engaging content & immersive narratives. Passionate about informing, inspiring, & entertaining through words.
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