The room was a magical place. As soon as you got to the landing at the top of the stairs, you could feel something different. It was like walking into a storybook. Your eyes fell from one tiny object to another, everything placed so deliberately and carefully about the room. Beautiful framed pictures of princesses in lovely elegant dresses adorned the walls, pictures of pretty soft cats and flowers, handwritten music and villages in France. The walls were filled with pictures and paintings, old postcards of fields of lavender and bouquets of lilacs in pretty vases. It was a place of beauty and quietness. A place to dream and sleep and feel at peace.
One wall had a long table with a wondrous collection of small old wooden dressers and even a tiny child's piano, the keys sounding as old as the wood itself, but charming and sweet. The girl who lived upstairs had a cat. His name was Duffy, an Irish name that held the history of the family within him as he quietly and stealthfully walked about the house. He was grey and black and had long fur. He loved to chase shadows in the sunlight in the kitchen downstairs and often would run madly about the house at night when everyone was sleeping, tearing up and down the stairs as if to get his nightly exercise without anyone noticing. But the girl noticed and giggled to herself. She thought Duffy was a funny cat and quite the character. He had beautiful dark green eyes and a very faint meow.
Sometimes, you could find Duffy sprawled about on the carpet up in the attic room, laying on his back with all four paws up in the air. His eyes closed, the world far away from him, as he dreamt of fields of flowers and warm sunshine. The girl wondered if he ever noticed all the things she had collected and set about everywhere in the attic room. Did he notice the little dolls and animals she had made, all grouped together in a basket shelf on the wall? Did he ever wonder what that tiny little gold box was filled with, always set about on the desk with the other small treasures? Duffy saw the girl open the box sometimes and look inside, a small smile coming to her face as her eyes lit up and a glow seemed to overtake her as she held the small box so gently in her hands. She was like that often. Carefully picking up different objects in the attic room, as if holding them for the very first time. They were cherished things to her, objects that held a precious feeling for her. This room was a magical place, a place of softness and memories of childhood.
As the girl walked slowly about the room, she marveled at the small glass shelves filled with tiny tea cups and porcelain vases with embellished flowers. Tiny glass horses, papier mache teapots and golden candelabras adorned the room. A row of small baskets draped across the wall above the closet doors filled her with amazement and delight. She tried to count them, but then just looked at the tiny beauty of them all, strung on an old cord, nearly a hundred of them, each one different. Boxes of treasures waited to be opened as they sat patiently under the long table. What amazing finds will be brought out when the girl finally opens the boxes?
To be continued.......
