This setting is different somehow; something I can't exactly explain. The air has weight which is not unchangingly enough to smother but rather enough to be experienced. Everywhere about me appears to be covered in an odd quiet, the sort of which makes you feel as if you were not completely solitary. The walls stand absolutely still, but somehow they seem breathe and carry narratives nobody has ever told.
During sunlight hours, everything fits into the common. The sunlight comes faintly, gently illuminating the walls. People run like a gentle current and conduct their affairs. The ambiance changes come evening, nevertheless. The air thickens and shadows lengthen beyond normal, as though the evening is alive. Half-expecting something to move, I regularly find myself staring at the dim corners.
It's not fear that remains; it's inquisitiveness. The vacuum is not felt here. It seems watchful, as if the surroundings is hiding away its mysteries and waiting for the correct eyes to see. Little noises cut through the quiet—outside, a whisper of wind blows across a crack, or the slight rustle of leaves. They leave unanswered issues in the breeze, without any logic.
Perhaps it all in my head. Possibly, isolation has a means of generating fantasies. Or perhaps this area contains narratives hidden under its cover, ones that only those who pay close attention will ever hear. The enigma hovers, whatever it is, enveloping me like an invisible presence I cannot quite brush off.