There is a place. A peculiar place. Where lost things go. Things that weren’t supposed to survive. Things that were misplaced, things that are filled with washed up magic. Things that are left out in the rain, left alone and cold. Things that no longer have a place in the world. Things that are alone and gone. Things that people no longer care about. Things that are forgotten in a restaurant. Things that need some place to go.
The place beckons them. Calls them. Instructs them. It sings it’s sweet melody in the hopes of new residents. Those things. Those lost things. They listen to the call. They are drawn to it. To the place. The place welcomes them, bringing them in with warm, caring arms. The place engulfs them. It tells them to forget.
Forget the neglect.
Forget the rain.
Forget the cold.
Forget the loneliness.
Forget the forgetfulness.
Forget the pain.
Forget the hurt.
And welcome the new. The new place. The new place as it beckons for them. And the lost things do. They forget. They embrace the new. And then the place is happy.
Because it has new things to kill.