In a quiet corner of the attic, where dust finds its permanent residence, lies a clock whose hands have forgotten the meaning of movement. Tick-tock, tick-tock, but never beyond the now.
Beside it stands a chair, its once vibrant colors now muted. "We hold what they dare not say," claims the chair, a testament to its silent service.
These steps, half-taken and sometimes retraced, lead to a world untouched by the busy hum of life below. A world echoing with secrets of the inanimate, begging to be uncovered.
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