Elara found it nestled in the attic's dust, a tiny, tarnished sparrow of brass and gears. Its ruby eyes, though clouded, held a spark of something ancient. She turned the key, a hesitant twist, and a whirring filled the silent room. The sparrow’s wings, delicate filigree, began to flutter, lifting it into the air. It circled her head, a silent, mechanical dance, then paused, its ruby gaze locking onto hers. A single, crystalline tear, not of water but of pure, shimmering light, rolled down its cheek. Then, with a soft click, it stilled, its wings folding, its light extinguished. Elara held the lifeless bird, a strange warmth lingering in her hands, a whisper of a story untold.
