There's a lit candle on my vintage sewing table disfusing berry aromas into the air. It sits in the dark corner next to my front door. The sewing table is much too worn down to be used for it's original purpose. Instead it houses a vary of collectables. Two old jars. One filled with flowers. The other a grape goo it was found containing. It smells of old wine, but I wouldn't dare pop the cork to try a taste. A bowl of poppouri lies in front of them, a fox mask to the side with a full insence burner accompanying it. And then there's my small wooden treasurechest engraved in gold with my name. My father brought it back to me from his wordly travels. When unlocked, it's velvet lined den holds my sincerest trinkets. Pins, lost keys, old charms, jewels, and tiny ornaments. The candle flickers dance along my golden name. It taunts me with a come hither shadow, drawing me in to treasures only I would find valuable.
