In the corridors of the forgotten, laughter once danced, vibrant and free. We store it within these heavy doors, whispers of what was left behind. Each chuckle, a secret kept beneath layers of time – captured like a butterfly in amber.
As you visit the vault, remember: laughter has a language of its own. It murmurs through the cracks, reverberates off the steel, singing songs of forgotten afternoons. What do you hear?
"I hear the orange," she said, eyes reflecting memories unspoken, epochs nested within epochs.