It is a low hum, constant and mute, in the house’s intimate womb. Not breath, not lament, nor any salute, but the rhythm that keeps vigil, never done.
Beneath the white shell, an inner world of frost and promises untrasted. It smells neither of waiting nor eternal memory, but guards pale summers.
Faithful sentinel, always alight, it ignores dreams and bitter words. Its faith rests in a life understood as waiting that knows how to preserve itself.