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The cradle in the abandoned cottage rests in a corner, surrounded by shadows that seem to swallow every ray of light, absorbing anything that could remind of former life. The wooden boards, bearing traces of past years, are cracked and faded, as if time itself etched its mark upon them. Once, they must have been warm, filled with the scent of fresh wood and hope, but now their color has faded, and the surface has become rough and porous. There is something almost painful in this sight — as if the loneliness of this place seeps from the walls, and the cradle itself stands as a mute witness to moments lost long ago.
The ropes, which once gently rocked this simple piece of furniture, now hang limply, like dried-out threads of life no longer needed. Veils of dust and cobwebs envelop the cradle, as if time has turned it into a grave of memories, a place where everything that once was has slipped away in silence. Every movement, every attempt to touch the wood, elicits a soft, drawn-out creak — a sound that echoes past care, a former presence now so distant it feels as if it never existed.
At the bottom of the cradle lies a thin layer of dust, resting quietly, as if the traces of a once-lived life have been sealed within it forever. In this dust, there is something almost touching — a faint indentation, like the mark of a small hand or a tiny head that once found warmth and safety here. The cradle, though seemingly dead, still carries this echo, as if it preserved every whisper, every gentle rocking, every soft lullaby sung by a mother to her child, soothing it into a peaceful rhythm.
Cobwebs stretch around it, forming a delicate, almost ethereal veil through which the wood’s original color barely shows. The cobwebs, intricately woven by time, shroud the cradle like lacework, reminding one of the years that have irreversibly passed. In their threads trembles the shadow of the past, a quiet whisper that hums in the air, filling the space like a ghost of days gone by. Though the cottage is empty, though time seems to stand still here, the cradle seems to still breathe, drawing in the scent of dampness, old wood, and something more — a sense of forgetting that slowly settles over all that is left behind.
The air in the cottage is heavy, thick with silence that weighs down and makes every step seem unnaturally loud. The silence, though nearly tangible, is not complete. It seems as though a soft murmur hides within this void — something that is neither a voice nor a sound, but rather a presence, an invisible echo that resonates in every corner of the cottage. Perhaps it is the wind slipping through the cracks in the walls, perhaps the creak of old boards that seem to breathe, shifting gently under the weight of time and memories.
As you gaze at the cradle, images from the past emerge — as if fine threads of memory are unfolding from the shadows, wrapping around you, drawing you into the history of this place. You see a mother, bent over the cradle, her face lit by the warm glow of a candle. Her eyes, full of care, watch the calm breath of her child, and her lips move softly, humming an old lullaby. Every line of the song, every soft sound seems to hang in the air, leaving an invisible trace that has survived even when everything else disappeared.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
But now the cradle is empty, abandoned. Instead of warmth and life, it is surrounded by coldness and darkness, and all traces of former care seem like mere shadows of memories. You can almost feel the echo of that long-forgotten lullaby around you, soft and elusive, like the ghost of a past that never found peace. This place is like a memory suspended in time, a quiet guardian of days that will never return.
When you look at the cradle, you feel something deep, something difficult to define. It’s not just loneliness — it’s something more, something that speaks of loss, of love that lasted only a moment but whose echo never faded. It is as if the wood itself bears the memory of quiet nights when every rustle and every soft breath was a part of this place. Now all of it is dead, frozen, but still present, still alive in some incomprehensible way that pervades everything you touch, everything you see.
The cottage is filled with a chill, almost penetrating, as if the walls themselves are saturated with a silence that robs everything of warmth. The air is heavy and damp, and every step sends an echo that seems to repeat itself endlessly. You feel the darkness surround you, pull you in, as if it wants to hold you in this place forever. And the cradle, though lifeless and still, seems to have a life of its own, its own memories that refuse to fade away.
You see it, this abandoned cradle, standing like a gateway to another time, like a portal to a world where life once existed, though now it remains only in the form of a silent echo. Every crack in the wood, every splintered board tells its own story, a quiet lament that still resounds, though no one hears it anymore. The cobwebs that cover the cradle seem like fine threads connecting it to a past that never truly disappeared.
There is something more in this place than mere solitude; something that speaks of a deeper feeling, of a love that passed but was never truly forgotten. Every part of the cradle seems to be a part of a story no one will ever tell, a story that will last as long as the cradle remains in this place, in this abandoned cottage, in this silence so deep that it seems to consume everything.
The silence in the cottage is like a dream, like a cold mist that envelops everything, drawing you deeper until you feel there is no escape. The cradle stands there, like a silent guardian, like a reminder of something that was, of something that has passed but was never truly lost. As you look at it, you get the sense that you can hear the faint murmur of a long-forgotten lullaby, that you can see a delicate movement, as if the cradle were once again filled with the quiet breath of a child.
This place, though forgotten, seems to live on in its own way.
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