A room lit only by the crackle of ancient records spinning at odd angles.
The smell of aged paper mingling with the anonymous musk of forgotten summers.
Mismatched chairs, all with one leg shorter than the rest, corralled beneath a single beam of light.
In the attic, a collection of lead soldiers stands sentry over imaginary battles.
Hushed whispers echo in the solitude, tracing patterns in the dust.
The taste of cold lemonade forgotten on the side, bitter in the warm air.
A bicycle, rusting into the earth beside overgrown bromeliads.
Its spokes silent messengers of laughter once shared in the dappled sun's embrace.
The echoes of a mother's lullaby reverb through the sill of a half-open window.
The tick of a clock that has forgotten the meaning of time.
An open diary, pages flutter freely as if guided by ghostly hands.
Each line a tether to different lives lived in secret, a tapestry of unreal realities.
Beneath the staircase, a door leads to nowhere, but still, it calls.
The sound of rain drumming on rooftops, a metronome for the surreal dance.
Faces appear in the clouds, whispering the names of places they suggest we go.