The Teacup

It wasn't the grand white spiraling staircase that caught the eye. Nor the marbled grecian  pillars that stood tall and firm. Not even the house itself, which holds many a secret. These things might catch the eyes of buyers and spenders and money makers, but not even all the gold and silver -just make that all the riches in the world- that the universe could hold would shift you from what was to be seen.

There, in that solitary room where light is a blessing upon itself, a rarity if you may, sits a lone, low square table. A fin layer of dust as its blanket from nothing. And at its side, a trifling chair stood proud as a kings throne. The color the magnificent chair once was... forgotten. Taken along by Time himself. Those were not the only things in the small sparse room.

There, resting proudly; that which couldn't be compared to anything, sat the unpretentious teacup. The smooth delicate handle -even in its own right, it was an elegant masterpiece- gliding effortlessly into the cup. Its white porcelain still shiny, while its simple pink rose floral design was impeccable. Perfect. You could tell this teacup was well looked after; for a young girl lay her head down, never leaving the teacups side.

The End

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