The Silent Corner

Once, she was whole.

Once, she had a name whispered by a voice long since vanished. She stood in the heart of a grand room, adorned in the finest silks, her wooden joints carefully polished, her porcelain fingers never out of place. She was never alive, yet she was adored.

But time is cruel to things that do not move. The world forgot her. The hands that dressed her no longer returned, and the warmth of admiration turned into the cold of neglect. Dust settled into the hollow spaces of her frame. Flowers grew where flesh could have been. The vines wrapped around her like whispered lullabies of a garden reclaiming what was once its own.

Now, she stands in a quiet corner, an artifact of lost time, her body entwined with nature's embrace. Roses bloom where a heart would beat, and her fingers, once meant to hold, now gather dust. Her silent form speaks of beauty long abandoned, of an existence neither fully alive nor truly dead.

And still, she waits—for what, even she no longer knows.