In the silence of the attic’s breath,
Lies a world of forgotten things,
A porcelain doll with a missing dress,
And a clock that no longer sings.

Cobwebbed mirrors reflecting past,
Old letters in a rusted chest,
A silver locket with a photograph,
Of a love that once was blessed.

Books with pages yellowed by time,
Stories of lives lived and gone,
A dusty globe that spins no more,
Yet still carries the weight of dawn.

In this space where memories sleep,
Objects whisper their silent plea,
To be remembered, to be seen,
For they too hold a history.