In the quiet shudder of twilight, the whispers of stars cascade through the veins of the old oak, painting shadows on faces long gone.
Do you remember the scent of rain dancing upon distant shores, mingling with the laughter of waves as they waltz with the moon's silver glow?
The attic holds more than dust; it cradles echoes of voices, fragments of dreams, and memories trapped in jars beneath the floorboards, waiting for time to befriend them again.
Somewhere, a clock ticks. Somewhere, a child sings. Somewhere, a door to the past creaks open just enough to let a moth of remembrance flutter through.