I think there are worlds hidden in the corners of our thoughts, each one a quiet library that never closes, but whether they’re just echoes or something that truly lives there is a question I keep turning over in my head.

The first one I’d pull is a quiet attic in an old house. Inside it sits a cracked music box that once sang lullabies, but now only hums a soft, half‑remembered tune. Whenever the attic dust gathers, the hum shifts, and tiny shadows rise from the floorboards. Those shadows are the forgotten characters from all the stories that were never finished. They dance, whispering unfinished scenes, and each time you touch the music box, you pull a piece of their world into yours, turning the attic into a living gallery of half‑faded tales.

It’s a night in a garden where a forgotten child sits on a stone, holding a single wilting flower, and the wind whispers the lullabies of their vanished mother—just enough to pull the whole dream back into the light.