For better or for worse, not all lost things are meant to be found.
Take for instance an orchestra who inexplicably walked out of the theatre and into the forest never to be seen again. They can still be heard playing 'Brandenburg Concerto No. 3' though none of them can be seen, at least not with human eyes. Dogs will chase them around, disrupting the songs and herding them deeper into the forest still.
For worse or for better, not all found things were lost to begin with.
Take for instance the taxidermied badger you discovered while taking the bins out for the night. It was perfectly preserved, right down to blood that had been painted on the little hand it held in its mouth. You took it in as a curiosity only to find the hand beside you on your pillow that morning and dirty paw prints leading to your open back door.
And for better, some things come forward to be found.
Take for instance the shadowy outline of a child that runs down the hallways of your apartment block. Most people run from it but you, fuelled by a hearty helping of alcohol, decided to follow it. All the way to the roof and all the way to the basement, picking up pieces of its life until you found the last few pieces of its body behind the boiler. It lead you to its grave where you hid the bones beneath the wilting flowers.
And for worse, some things are best left to rot in a rarely visited attic.
Take for instance the stencil used for your grandmother's tattoo. The elaborate and delicate linework she had in place of a wedding ring, one that balanced the brutalist design on your grandfather's finger. She was always so proud of it, said it meant they'd never be parted -and they weren't. Not until she lost her finger in a car accident and he lost his lift. She'll be wanting that stencil back.
Take for instance an orchestra who inexplicably walked out of the theatre and into the forest never to be seen again. They can still be heard playing 'Brandenburg Concerto No. 3' though none of them can be seen, at least not with human eyes. Dogs will chase them around, disrupting the songs and herding them deeper into the forest still.
For worse or for better, not all found things were lost to begin with.
Take for instance the taxidermied badger you discovered while taking the bins out for the night. It was perfectly preserved, right down to blood that had been painted on the little hand it held in its mouth. You took it in as a curiosity only to find the hand beside you on your pillow that morning and dirty paw prints leading to your open back door.
And for better, some things come forward to be found.
Take for instance the shadowy outline of a child that runs down the hallways of your apartment block. Most people run from it but you, fuelled by a hearty helping of alcohol, decided to follow it. All the way to the roof and all the way to the basement, picking up pieces of its life until you found the last few pieces of its body behind the boiler. It lead you to its grave where you hid the bones beneath the wilting flowers.
And for worse, some things are best left to rot in a rarely visited attic.
Take for instance the stencil used for your grandmother's tattoo. The elaborate and delicate linework she had in place of a wedding ring, one that balanced the brutalist design on your grandfather's finger. She was always so proud of it, said it meant they'd never be parted -and they weren't. Not until she lost her finger in a car accident and he lost his lift. She'll be wanting that stencil back.
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