The Attic of Eternal Autumn

Tattered lace flutters in a sudden draft from between the attic clapboards,  hovering for a moment before drifting slowly to rest upon the gown to which it is attached. The folds of cream-coloured satin ripple around a fallen corset whose ribbons have begun to fray. Only the silhouettes of forgotten lovers can see that the satin too has begun to yellow and the once-weightless veil is now heavy with dust and cobwebs. Withered petals are scattered around the dress like fallen leaves, and indeed, the ghosts in this attic never see the years’ first snowfalls nor the warm glow of passing summers; autumn is eternal. But eternity is no stranger to the lifeless dress whose animation was denied by a thief and a broken heart that beats no longer. It saw the transience of “forever” in a single glance, and now it lies on wooden planks. So stillness reigns, and silence covers all.


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