The Old Wardrobe: The moths, they sing in the night. A tune known only to the lamplight flickers. Her secrets are cuttings from the shadows, stitched amidst fabric that bites when the moon gloats. Enter the crevice.
The Broken Clock: Tick, tick - I was never broken. Just slow, in sync with dust's dance. Time is a misnomer in this attic; it's the rhythm of cobwebs that guide my hands. Listen close.
The Dusty Mirror: Reflections of reflections, yet who defines the real? I whisper of angles, of stories not seen but felt. Lies and truths masked in fragments. Through the glass.
The Rusty Harp: Strings that cry in tones unplayed, kept alive by breezes of memory. Once a serenade; now, a lament of silence unbroken. Hear the lament.