THE WARDROBE WITH TOO MANY LOCKS
My wooden frame groans with the weight of years, the symphony of a thousand nights. I am a bed, yet I am also a keeper of tales, a silent witness to the drama unfolding in a family. I am a stage where two generations have played their lives out, and the impressions they left behind on me are written in my very heart. I remember my first residents: a young couple, full of the limitless energy of youth. They were my designers, the first to lay their heads upon me. Their sleep was a quiet, contented one, filled with gentle murmured wishes and tomorrow's dreams. I kept their secrets in my springs—the gentle stroke of a hand in the darkness, the laughter at a poor joke, the silent comfort of a body close after a long day. The bed creaked in the middle, bearing witness to their passion. Their love was a living thing, a warm blanket that enveloped me night after night. And then there were the children. Their sleep was another song, a restless, vital symphony of kicks and throws, of sm...
