The cold metal whispers of faces once cherished, edges wear the paint of countless eras. They speak softly, invisibly, of warm touches turned icy over the years, voices haunting the wallpaper long after the shadows flicker out.
Cobwebs cradle dust in its wooden drawers, open and cloistered, sharing space with marooned ink blots and aged paper. Whispers tell of hidden messages never meant to escape, secrets penned in haste but sealed by time's tick.
Once vibrant melodies have long since died. Now its keys shift beneath dust, automaton songbirds' song unsung, entrapped in wooden heart’s rhythm held prison. Echoes mourn unplayed notes, sound's ghostly waltz.