The clock sighed-as it always does at the witching moment, its hollow chime spilling echoes over my desk: a cobweb of seconds woven by sterile hands.
Strawberry jam found in an attic box becomes a potion when adorned with crescent moons pressed from tidings ink-stained on soiled parchment.
Curled beneath the sofa's deterministic embrace, I discovered coins—pennies likely conjured by the absent postcards of whispering sorcerers.
Does the coffee kettle whisper too, when the burgeon of steam bows toward the saffron-lit windowpane of an October long forgotten?
Visions of opera sung by an anniversary clock, gears set to an unseen choreography. Grandma's terrifying mirror speaks—oh yes, but not yet.
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