the secret lives of objects ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

My bookshelf holds more than books. It’s a tiny museum of forgotten things: a chipped mug with daisies on it, a photograph of someone I don’t recognize, a key that doesn’t open anything anymore.

Sometimes, I wonder about the lives these objects had before they came to me. Did the mug belong to someone who drank tea at sunrise, watching the world wake up? Did the photograph capture a fleeting, perfect moment that someone couldn’t bear to throw away?

I don’t collect these things on purpose. They seem to find me, as if they know I’ll keep them safe. And I do. Even if they’re broken, even if they’ve outlived their purpose. There’s beauty in their stillness, in the stories they carry in silence.

xoxo evie ˚₊‧꒰ა ꣑ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚