A small paper bird, folded in traditional style, made with chip shop newspaper. Old stains strike a pattern across its wings; gently shimmering in the dusty air. The bird is kept within a small metal cage, suspended from the ceiling.
On the floor, delicately leaning against a structural beam, is a small porcelain doll. A little lace has been tied around its waist, and its hair is well combed, straight back. Whatever paint once portrayed a face is long worn off, and a small indent shows where the right cheek is often gently touched by a strong, rough thumb.
Across the room is a table; a workbench. On one side is a violin, the body caked with dust but otherwise in good condition. The strings are regularly polished; and though it has not been played in years, just from the look of it a musician would trust it to play true. Small nicks across the base suggest it was picked up and put back regularly, against a hard surface; well-loved by someone who, perhaps, did not yet know how to properly care for such a thing.
On the other side of the desk are tools; wrought from iron and impossibly sturdy. These chisels, pliers, and hammers are so thoroughly worn they could not reflect, even were they not layered with thick dust. They are small; more suited to crafting little curios and delights for children than for any grander works. There are no patterns in the dust on this side of the table; these tools have rested precisely where they were placed for many, many years.
Hanging from one of the beams supporting this old house is a clothes hanger, supporting a well-crafted bag. Within is a dress of white lace and gossamer; in perfect condition, and worn only once, perfectly. If one were to inspect this dress carefully, one would see two small tears around the hips; both tears have been carefully fixed, but with a thicker string, of a slightly less perfect shade of white. From any reasonable distance these corrections are entirely invisible.
In the centre of the room is a mahogany rocking chair; a beautifully crafted and almost unique piece. Almost unique, but not quite; its pair rocks gently, somewhere downstairs. The curved feet are well worn, clearly having been used for many decades. Gentle indents and wear in the wood show the outline of a fine, tall frame, absent now.
A hatch in the floor opens, and he ascends the stairs, candle in hand. Flickering yellow light plays gently across his wrinkled, comfortably weathered face. His gentle green eyes flick across his collection of kept things; barely visible now even through his thick eyeglasses. He carefully holds the candle, his fingers twitching and his wrists trembling, as he soaks up the history of this room. He releases a wistfully contented sigh, smiles, and descends back down the ladder, closing the hatch behind him.