Inside the walls of time and wardrobe, where echoes tuck themselves in for a slumber.
Once upon the horizon of fabric folds, the Fshmoire hums. Dreamscapes open where jars of whispering echoes are stacked precariously, balancing on truths only half-spoken, half-remembered. Echoes become garments, draped over the shoulders of what once was.
People talk to the Fshmoire, but only the brave hear it speak. In tongues of silk-lined mysteries, it sways. Cloaks of the unseen swirl, a dance, an unraveling of the very fabric of existence.
This is no ordinary storage, no mere furniture. A guardian of lost hopes, it stretches its arms wide, embracing the forgotten lullabies of the universe. Each drawer, a vault, echoing with the snickers of interstellar sprites. Perhaps, here lies your whimsy.