You are inside now. The walls are close and soft, papered in patterns that shift when you aren't looking directly at them. There is warmth here -- the amber kind, the sort that comes from a single flame somewhere just out of sight.
Every space contains a smaller space. Every story holds a quieter story inside it, the way a locket holds a photograph -- precious, hidden, meant only for whoever opens it.
keep looking closerA moth lands on a word and the word changes meaning. A key turns in a lock no one built. This is where the littlest things live -- in the spaces between intention and accident, in the breath before a secret is told.
"Smallness is not a limitation. It is a doorway."
The dream thins. The walls dissolve softly at their edges. Somewhere, a moth folds its wings and becomes a shadow on a wall you can no longer see.