Once upon a time, hidden in the remote corner of the attic's highest shelf, lay the remnants of a proud collection of artifacts and trinkets, now awash in dust and echoes of memories.
An old, wooden box spoke first, its hinges creaking with age and discontent:
"They thrust me amongst these knickknacks, mere garlands of unfortunate semblance. Yet, none know, none comprehend, the secretive abyss I cradle within. Oh, how I contained treasures untold, stolen whispers of love letters, secretive maps, and dreams of wanderers."
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And there was the worn globe, its surface crusted with the sands of time:
"I have circled the Earth many times, from the hands that aspired to conquer and those that wished only to escape. I guarded the secrets of silent voyages, uncharted journeys, and broken compasses. For all my spins, I remain grounded, shackled to this dusty plane, a hundred miles from the ocean I crave."
Beyond their whispered confessions, one could always wander further through the corridors of solitude. Perhaps the pages of a forgotten book, or the remnants of ancient tools, would unfold tales none have dared to tell. Seek here for more.
If you wish for more about the tales the globe tells, turn there.