The Hidden Toy Factory

In a quiet town, where nights whisper,

there's a door beneath the old oak,

painted red with stars, but dusty now.

Tick.

Behind it, gears spin slowly,

toymakers of twilight, crafting whispered dreams,

in metal boxes with eyes like moons.

Echo.

Children giggle, then silence falls,

shadows stretch arms, gently,

weaving secrets in the dusk's embrace.

Murmur.

Outside, the world's a canvas,

but inside, it's painted in sighs,

a song of clock hands and echoes.

What whispers there? Only the brave dare peek.