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"The memory box"
#HiddenLayers
On a small shelf in the corner of my room, there was an old wooden box, worn by time. Its surface was full of marks and scratches, but it still retained a subtle shine that made it special. For as long as he could remember, that box had been an object of curiosity; Every time I looked at it, I wondered what secrets it kept inside.
One day, driven by nostalgia, I decided to open it. As I lifted the lid, an aroma of dust and old wood enveloped me. Inside, I found a collection of objects: a yellowed pen, a small pocket watch frozen in time, and a series of letters tied with a faded ribbon. Each of those articles seemed to tell its own story.
The pen belonged to my grandfather, a man who had been a writer in his youth. I remembered the stories he used to tell me about his adventures and dreams. At that time, the pen became a symbol of creativity and unfulfilled...
On a small shelf in the corner of my room, there was an old wooden box, worn by time. Its surface was full of marks and scratches, but it still retained a subtle shine that made it special. For as long as he could remember, that box had been an object of curiosity; Every time I looked at it, I wondered what secrets it kept inside.
One day, driven by nostalgia, I decided to open it. As I lifted the lid, an aroma of dust and old wood enveloped me. Inside, I found a collection of objects: a yellowed pen, a small pocket watch frozen in time, and a series of letters tied with a faded ribbon. Each of those articles seemed to tell its own story.
The pen belonged to my grandfather, a man who had been a writer in his youth. I remembered the stories he used to tell me about his adventures and dreams. At that time, the pen became a symbol of creativity and unfulfilled...
