The Hall Of Lost Things | Sleep Story With Music

In tonight’s sleep story, you are searching for a book of stories from your childhood during a thunderstorm. While searching the attic, you come upon a wing of your house you’ve never seen before The Hall of Lost Things. Here, among your forgotten objects and artifacts, you find the lost memories of the whole world.

Music: Clairvoyance (Syntropy) The Sleep/Binaural Overlay/Romeo Alpha (Joseph Beg), Cosmic Dreams/Dream Focus Beta Waves/Nordic Sunrise/Thymotic Moments (Bruce Brus) Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Discover the place where lost things go in tonight's magical bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like,

And whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and make your way into sleep.

In tonight's story,

You are searching for a book of stories from your childhood during a thunderstorm.

While searching the attic,

You come to a wing of your house you've never seen before.

This is the hall of lost things.

Here among your own forgotten objects and artifacts,

You find the lost memories of the whole world.

I half-closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I'd ever lost since my childhood had washed up.

Kazuo Ishiguro.

Never let me go.

There's something so comforting about a thunderstorm.

The sense of warm,

Cocooned safety from the elements.

The reminder of nature's awesome power.

The nostalgic whisper of heightened excitement and curiosity.

You remember being very young and piling all the pillows and blankets from your bedroom in the innermost hallway of the house,

A veritable pillow fort of protection against the raging storm outside where you could only faintly hear the rumble of thunder or curtains of rain on the windows.

You remember flashlights and making your hands into funny shapes to cast their shadows on the walls,

And storybooks to pass the time till the storm moved on.

This was a family ritual so delightful and divergent from the norm that at any time you began to feel the electric charge of rain in the atmosphere,

You'd tremble with excitement.

Now as rain pelts the windows of your house,

You find yourself gripped by the desire to recreate the old ritual.

You climb the stairs to your bedroom and pull the plush duvet from the bed along with all the pillows you can carry in an armful.

You throw the blanket and pillows on the floor of the hallway outside the upstairs bathroom right next to the linen closet.

It's not quite the same as it was all those years ago,

But it does conjure a similar spark and a sense of coziness.

All you need now is a book to read as you wait out the storm.

You've got a small shelf of beloved books against the wall in your bedroom.

The ones you reach for when you need to clear your mind before going to bed.

The ones you've read a thousand times,

And never cease to make you feel special,

Or safe,

Or at home.

You scan the shelves quickly,

Looking for something you haven't read in a while,

Or a book that seems particularly suited to the circumstances.

There was one book,

You recall,

That was a source of both intrigue and calm during those stormy evenings long ago.

It was a collection of the Greek myths,

Illustrated for children and younger readers.

You can still see so many of the illustrations clearly in your mind.

Simple yet evocative expressions of gods,

Heroes,

And cosmic phenomena.

Unfortunately,

It's not on your bedroom bookshelf.

And though you're certain you never threw it out,

Or donated it to a used bookstore,

The sentimental value being so strong,

You have to rack your brain to think whether you still have it somewhere in the house.

Where might it be,

You wonder.

There's a larger book cabinet in the sitting room downstairs.

You look there,

Though you imagine you'd have seen the collection day after day,

If it were right under your nose.

It's not there.

Resigned,

You decide to settle for another tome,

Until,

Perfectly timed with a brilliant flash of lightning outside,

You remember something.

There's a box of old books in the attic,

You say aloud,

Almost involuntarily.

You moved them up there years ago,

Along with racks of old coats,

Children's toys,

And other knickknacks you're too nostalgic to let go of.

What are the chances,

You think,

That this specific book might be up there?

Thunder rumbles,

Distant and low,

In answer to the lightning.

It's been a while since you went up to the attic.

You have to mentally prepare yourself for the possibility of leaks and cobwebs.

You grab a flashlight from the hall closet,

Remembering that the single bare bulb in the attic hasn't been changed in all the time you've lived here.

Then,

Reaching up to tug the string,

You release the pull-down attic stairs.

Steadily you climb,

The flashlight tucked under one arm.

Once up in the attic,

The rain feels vaguer and yet more immediate.

You can hear it like a fuzzy curtain of white noise on the roof above.

You click on the flashlight and reach for the cord to turn on the overhead bulb.

As you suspected,

The light doesn't turn on,

But fortunately,

The flood of your torch creates enough visibility to move comfortably throughout the attic.

You're relieved to see there's no evidence of the rain leaking into the space,

And layers of dust notwithstanding.

The attic is reasonably clean.

There are numerous cardboard boxes stacked against the walls,

And two clothing racks hung with forgotten items.

There's a black pea coat hanging up that you'd all but forgotten about.

You consider bringing this down with you,

As fall is soon approaching.

You cross to the stack of boxes,

And pull the first down.

It's far too light to contain any books,

So you open the one beneath it.

This one is filled to the top with photo albums.

A twinge of wistfulness spurs you to flip through one of them.

Within are faded photographs of your childhood.

You building sandcastles at the beach,

Riding a pony for the first time,

Planting flowers in the garden with a loved one.

It's so strange to look back and think that that was you.

In the time since,

You've added so many layers of knowledge,

Wisdom,

And experience.

You've changed significantly inside and out.

So it's natural to wonder,

Underneath it all,

Are you still the same,

Abiding you?

You close the box of photo albums,

And continue your search of the attic.

You have a vague memory of storing books in question,

In a plastic tub rather than a cardboard box.

So you go in search of such a container.

Toward the far corner of the attic,

Your flashlight illuminates an unidentified mass,

Draped with a muslin cloth,

Hopeful that the drop cloth might conceal exactly what you're looking for.

You cross to the corner,

Your flashlight bobbing and swinging subtly with your movement,

But before you even extend a hand to remove the cloth,

The light flashes on something in the corner that catches your eye.

A smooth surface you hadn't seen before,

Have never seen before.

Even living in the house for as long as you have,

It's a step.

A bottom step which would normally lead up to more steps,

In a staircase,

But in this instance,

It firmly abuts the solid wall of the attic.

You chuckle to yourself.

Old houses are often full of quirks like this,

Left over from unfinished projects or low-effort remodels.

Something like this,

A stair to nowhere in the attic,

Is easy to overlook.

Before you turn your flashlight away,

However,

You notice a faint discoloration on the wall,

Just above the lonely stair.

It almost looks like,

And it's too precise a shape to ignore the similarity.

The outline of a door,

How strange,

You think?

The impression suggests that there was once a door here in the attic,

Concealing a stairway to a higher level of the house,

But that's not possible.

The house is only two stories,

And you know the layout like the back of your hand,

Still,

Drawn on by mounting curiosity,

You approach the out-of-place stair and press a hand along the wall,

Where lies the illusion of a secret door.

Yes,

Beneath a layer of wallpaper,

You can feel a subtle indentation along the outline,

As if it was simply pasted over,

Forgetting your original purpose for coming up here in the excitement of your discovery.

You take a deep breath,

And pierce the wallpaper with a fingernail.

You grasp the end of the paper and begin to tug at it,

Peeling away a large strip.

Behind the paper,

There is a dark wood,

Mahogany,

Perhaps.

You pull another strip of wallpaper away,

And another,

And with each piece you pull,

You reveal more and more of the hidden door,

And it is,

Indeed,

A door.

At last,

After standing on the curious step to reach above your head,

You unearth the whole thing.

You trace your flashlight along its edges and admire the even grain of the reddish-brown wood.

What it doesn't have,

However,

Is a doorknob.

You feel around the edges again,

Trying to get enough of a grip to pry it open,

But to no avail.

You push,

Hopelessly,

Against the door,

But it doesn't budge.

You seem to have come to the end of your unexpected adventure,

Forced to turn back before you've even begun,

But you can't give up.

You simply must know what lies behind this secret door in the attic.

Is it simply a forgotten crawlspace,

Or something more mysterious?

With renewed vigor,

You search with eyes and hands for any concealed handle or switch that might allow the door to be opened.

You press an ear to the door and knock against it in various spots,

Listening for any clue.

It does appear to be hollow,

You think,

From the quality of the sound as you knock,

Which means there's an open space behind the door,

A hallway or a secret chamber.

Intrigue rises as you continue to search for a way in,

And then it happens.

Your feeling fingers catch upon a small flaw in the wood.

You halt,

Then curl your hand around it.

The optical illusion is so successful that you hadn't seen it until now.

There's a small recess in the door,

Painted precisely to appear one with the wood grain,

Which accommodates a hidden handle.

A little thrill runs up your spine as you grasp it,

Then you pull toward you,

Opening the door.

There's a rush of cool air as you swing the heavy door toward you,

And on it comes the faint scent of,

You're not sure,

Something sweet and comforting.

Like vanilla,

But not quite.

Behind the door,

You reveal a dim,

Narrow passage,

And indeed,

The steps continue upward ahead,

Vanishing into the darkness beyond.

You shine your flashlight into the corridor,

But all you can see from here are steps leading up.

How is it possible that you didn't know this was here,

You think?

This is the kind of thing that only happens in dreams,

Isn't it?

Finding hidden halls and secret wings in familiar places,

Only you're quite sure you're not dreaming.

So,

Holding your flashlight tightly,

And taking a brief glance back at the attic,

You begin to ascend the mysterious stair.

It goes on longer than you expect,

The sound of rain and thunder seems to have dissolved into the tranquil silence of the passage.

Every step you take,

You assume will be the last,

Leading to a landing or secondary chamber,

But the flashlight continues to reveal yet more ascending stairs.

Behind you,

The steps back down to the attic diminish into shadow.

How far does this go?

Finally,

Just as you're beginning to think you'd better turn around and go back to the familiar,

The stairs at last reach a landing.

You find you're able to turn off your flashlight,

As there's a soft,

Warm light about the place.

But what kind of a place is this?

It's quite large,

With a ceiling hung with iron light fixtures.

There are numerous arched doorways and staircases leading off in every direction.

You feel a bit like you've stumbled into an artwork by MC Asher,

But rather than feeling disoriented,

You feel strangely at home.

The more time you spend observing this strange and secret place,

The more familiar it becomes,

As if you've not in fact discovered a hidden,

Surreal wing of your home,

But rediscovered a place you used to visit often,

And had forgotten how to access.

A fluttering sound and a blur of black and white streaks across the space.

Before it disappears through one of the arches,

You take the thing to be a bird,

By the pattern of black and white feathers,

You suspect it's a magpie.

One of those mischievous corvids known for stealing and collecting small,

Shiny objects.

The magpie vanishes beyond the archway into the next room,

And you follow,

Eager to learn more about this place.

The arch leads to a smaller room,

Though still spacious,

Which rings and clinks with a cacophony of sounds.

It takes some time to isolate the noises and chaotic first impression of the chamber,

There's the jingling sound of metal,

Like coins clattering against each other,

Birdsong,

And the flutter of wings.

All you can see at first is a jumble of silver,

Black,

And white,

Shifting spontaneously under the light.

At the center of the room is a huge,

Shifting mass of something.

It glitters like the surface of water,

But it's absolutely solid,

Yet it changes shape as quickly as a wave.

You squint,

Then realize that it's not one thing,

But thousands upon thousands of tiny things,

Moving as one,

Flocking like a murmuration of starlings in the center of the room,

But they're not birds,

They're keys.

Old heavy brass keys and shiny new keys,

Small keys and large keys,

Masked together like some sort of avant-garde sculpture that moves and agitates of its own will.

Now and again,

From within the mass of keys,

The magpie will emerge,

Release a raspy chatter,

Then dive back into the tower of keys,

Like a delighted child into a swimming pool.

It's a mesmerizing play,

Which you're at a loss to explain.

You find yourself drawing closer and closer to the mass of dancing keys,

Keen to uncover the mechanism by which they move so fluidly as one object.

Now at only an arm's length away,

You raise a hand and reach out to pluck a ring of keys from the accumulation,

But at the very moment your fingers make contact,

Oh,

You really shouldn't touch anything,

Comes a voice from behind you.

You whirl around to behold the speaker,

Silhouetted in the archway is a tiny figure,

The size of a young child,

At least not anything that doesn't belong to you.

I'm sorry,

You say,

Stepping away from the keys,

I didn't mean to.

Could you tell me what this place is?

Come with me,

Says the voice,

I'll help you get where you're going.

The silhouette turns and retreats,

You leap lightly to catch up with him.

In the light,

The speaker is revealed to be a tiny man.

He's barely half your height,

But walks with a spring and a swiftness in his step.

His clothing is of note,

Reminiscent of Victorian evening attire,

Complete with tails,

But instead of a silk hat,

He wears on his head a device like a candle snuffer.

And what exactly is it you're looking for,

Says the little man,

Charging ahead toward one of the staircases?

Well,

A book,

I suppose,

You say,

But couldn't you tell me where we are,

And how this place came to be in my attic?

The little man stops in his tracks and turns around.

He looks you up and down inquisitively,

His eyes widen for the briefest of moments,

And then his small,

Puckish face settles into an expression of realization.

Oh,

Pardon me,

He says,

You must forgive my rudeness.

It's been a while since one of you came through.

One of who,

You ask?

A seeker,

Replies the little man.

Shall we begin again?

Now he clears his throat and spreads his arms wide,

Gesturing to the expanse of the chamber with its many stairs and arches.

Welcome to the Hall of Lost Things.

As if to emphasize his pronouncement,

The lights in the large atrium flare for a moment,

As though from a fire generously stoked.

The crescendo of light sends shadows stretching across the floors and walls.

The Hall of Lost Things,

You repeat,

Questioning.

Have you ever lost something?

Not merely mislaid,

But truly lost it,

Says the man.

Have you searched high and low,

In every nook and cranny,

In every place imaginable,

And still been unable to find it?

You don't even have to answer this.

It sounds like a perfectly universal human experience.

Well,

Says the man with the candle snuffer hat,

This is where those objects come.

You find yourself speechless.

Past the archway,

You can still hear the faint tinkling of metal.

A whole assemblage,

You now realize,

Of people's lost keys.

What a notion,

That when something goes irrevocably missing,

It comes here,

To a hidden place,

Perhaps even an alternate dimension.

Walk with me,

I'll show you,

Says the man,

Seemingly impatient with your slowness to understand.

It was a book you're looking for,

You say.

With this,

He's already turned on a heel and begun striding toward a staircase.

You spring to follow.

He emits a sharp whistle,

And in a moment,

The playful magpie emerges from the other room and comes to land upon his shoulder.

The bird regards you with curiosity.

We'll take this route,

Says the man,

Beginning to climb the stairs,

Then mutters something that sounds like a shortcut through the heirlooms.

As you make for the stairs,

Something falls,

Light as a feather,

From the ceiling of the atrium.

On float a few loose pieces of paper,

A knit scarf,

Several pairs of spectacles,

A ball,

And a bracelet.

The items land noiselessly in a heap on the floor.

The little man sighs and shakes his head,

Mumbling about how he'll see to it later.

What should I call you?

You ask the guide.

Oh,

Never mind all that,

He says.

Oh,

I suppose if you must call me something,

Cobb will do.

Cobb,

Then,

You say.

How long have you been here?

You're just reaching the top of the long steps and preparing to pass through another archway.

Cobb sighs in response to your question.

Longer than I care to count,

He says.

Centuries,

Maybe millennia,

Used to be just a heap of objects and items all in disarray.

Things fall from the sky,

No order to any of it.

And mountains of forgotten artifacts.

But I had all the time in the world,

So one day I decided it was time to start organizing it all.

As you move across the threshold into a long hallway,

You can see firsthand the result of Cobb's effort.

He reminded strongly of being in a museum.

On either side of the narrow corridor,

There are shelves behind glass.

Upon the shelves sit numerous sparkling objects.

You can't help but slow down to admire some of them.

There is an eclectic collection of pewter figurines.

Dragons and wizards,

And griffins and unicorns.

Some holding polished marbles,

Or embedded with crystal accents.

On another shelf there are sentimental porcelain figurines and antique dolls.

The rest of the objects go by in a blur as you hurry to catch up with your guide.

The magpie flutters its wings and chatters at the panes of glass.

Not for you,

Penny,

Cobb says to the bird with a tone of affection.

The next room is spacious and wide,

With a pedestal mounted at every few feet.

Upon each pedestal is a kind of jewelry form.

Either mannequin hands,

Or styled wire trees,

On which hang necklaces and strings of beads.

Cobb notices you idling to admire the pieces,

And reluctantly slows his pace.

So everything here,

You say,

Belonged to someone in my world.

I,

Says Cobb,

And I'd wager many of these are rather missed.

You linger at a lovely display centered around an oversized oyster shell.

There's a large pink pearl set upon a cushion within.

And around the object are various other gems and pieces of jewelry.

A charm bracelet strung with seashells.

A pendant of wire-wrapped blue sea glass.

Even a necklace,

Tenderly handmade from what looks like a fossilized barnacle.

On the next pedestal,

An elegant candelabra serves as a display for dozens of shining rings.

Some look to be engagement rings,

With diamonds catching the light in their facets.

One ring,

With a white gold band and set with glittering blue topaz,

Catches your eye.

From all around sparkle every kind of precious and semi-precious stone.

How might these lustrous jewels have been lost?

Who weeps for them still,

Laid lovingly on a strip of velvet for the broken items?

A Star of David pendant with a broken chain.

A ruby ring,

Tarnished beyond repair.

Loose,

Round beads and unstrung pearls.

Shining brooches with missing crystals.

Ring settings with no stone.

Yet these are displayed with the same dignity and grace as the still intact pieces.

Of course,

Broken or unbroken.

You're certain these pretty things are just as loved,

Just as missed by their former possessors.

Your thoughts drift to them,

The vague and unknown people who once wore the jewels,

The rings,

The pendants of this place.

Who were they,

You wonder?

What did any one bracelet or earring mean to them?

You can sense Cobb waiting by the door to the next room,

Though his energy is less hurried than before.

You pull yourself away from the moving display of broken jewelry to join him in moving on.

The next doorway leads to another long hall.

You try to make a mental map of the floor plan you've traversed thus far.

From the attic to the atrium,

And into the successive chambers and corridors.

More and more,

You feel as if you're winding through a surreal labyrinth.

There are various darkened archways leading off in multiple directions from this hall.

You can't resist the urge to poke your head into one or two,

And Cobb seems to have more indulgence for your curiosity now.

You peek into the first doorway,

Finding a small illuminated chamber simply filled with children's toys.

They're arranged in piles,

On shelves,

And sometimes on pedestals.

But there's a coziness,

And an inviting quality to this room that's different from those with more refined displays.

Go ahead then,

Says Cobb as you look to him with a pleading air.

Take a look around,

I've got the time.

You enter the room filled with toys,

Feeling at once the light-hearted innocence of childhood envelop you.

You think like a child again,

Trembling with the excitement of so many wonderful things,

Waiting to be snuggled and held and loved.

There's a shelf of homemade wooden toys,

A little wagon hand-painted with red and green and gold.

Even a dusting of glittery snow on its roof.

A few of those wooden train cars that connect via magnets.

A hand-carved wooden mouse,

Half-concealed within a semicircular cutout in the wall,

Reminiscent of a cartoon mouse hole.

Among a multitude of stuffed animals,

A well-loved plush puppy.

Its fur rough from generations of doting,

Smiles up at you.

Then,

With a little gasp,

Your eyes fall on the face of one of countless teddy bears.

Without thinking,

You reach out and pull it from the pile.

But Cobb does not scold you as he did before,

For touching things that don't belong to you.

Because this one does belong to you.

Eyes sparkling with tears.

You recognize the look,

The smell,

And the feel of your first teddy.

Found something,

Have we?

Says Cobb's voice from the doorway.

The magpie warbles softly in response.

Yes,

You say,

Still beholding the soft bear in your hands.

Drinking in its every detail with waves of warmth.

Its beaded eyes.

Its rounded ears.

Something I didn't even realize was lost.

That's often how it happens,

Says Cobb thoughtfully.

You detect some sympathy in his voice.

Can I take it with me?

You wonder aloud.

Or does it have to stay here?

You're still not sure exactly how this place works.

Well,

It's yours,

He replies.

To take or leave.

You only have to decide whether it's still important to you,

Or if you'd rather leave it behind.

You think about the photo album in the attic.

There were probably images within those pages of you snuggling this very bear.

You may not need to cuddle a stuffed animal to fall asleep anymore,

But it's such a poignant reminder of who you used to be.

Who,

On some level,

You still are.

You tuck the bear under an arm and turn back to your guide,

Who gestures for you to come along.

We haven't had a visitor in such a long time,

He explains.

I've really forgotten my etiquette.

I spent so many years cataloging and organizing everything into rooms and exhibits.

I really ought to let you peruse and admire.

What's through that door?

You indicate a darkened archway,

Beyond which you can hear a sort of susurrus,

Cob,

Beams at this.

One of my prouder achievements.

You see,

It's not only objects and items that get lost and make their way here,

But sometimes more abstract things.

Memories,

Ideas.

Have you ever begun to say something,

And found,

As you went on,

That you'd forgotten where you started?

Of course.

Well then,

Says cob.

Behold,

The lost trains of thought.

Intrigued,

You step through the doorway.

There's no light within this room,

Save the mellow spill from the hall.

But though you cannot see anything,

Your other senses awaken.

It's as if a mild wind whistles through the chamber,

Making it feel cavernous,

Though you do not know its size.

The breeze is strong enough to pick up your limbs and whip through your hair,

But pleasantly so.

On the wind comes a variety of scents.

Vanilla again,

Or something like it.

Then honeysuckle,

Linden blossom,

Rose.

And your ears fill with the comforting sound of whispering voices,

The words so low and muffled you cannot distinguish them.

The voices blending seamlessly into one another,

Like quaking aspens delicately sharing their secrets on the wind.

Now and again,

You think you pick up your own voice,

Your own unfinished thoughts.

But before you can be sure,

It dissolves again into the chorus.

Standing in this room is an experience like no other.

Bathing in thought,

By the time you're ready to leave,

You feel somehow clarified,

Elevated.

You,

The sole unconscious recipient of countless unfinished insights and little wisdoms.

There's one more room to pass through,

Before you reach the Hall of Lost Books,

And this one reminds you most of a classical art museum.

You enter a sunny chamber with marble floors,

And warm,

Wheat-colored walls on which hang thousands of gilded frames.

They cover the walls from floor to ceiling,

Collaged of all shapes and sizes.

But in those ornate frames are not the oil paintings and fine art you might expect of such a gallery.

No,

The elegant treatments frame a multitude of photographs,

Polaroids,

And snapshots,

Candids from disposable cameras,

Negatives and discarded proofs.

Each image captures a moment in time.

Some are profound,

Life-changing events.

Weddings,

Graduations,

Births,

And family reunions.

Others are quieter moments.

A child photographed mid-jump before splashing into a pool.

A young woman holding a hand before the camera to avoid having her picture taken.

And clearly laughing behind the obscuring hand.

A smiling baby girl.

A portrait of a man so tenderly composed it can only have been taken by someone who loves him.

You find that your eyes are once again glistening with tears.

As you walk through the frozen memories,

The lost photographs of the world,

Some are damaged by water or singed at the edges by fire.

No matter how seemingly small the moment,

Or ordinary the photograph,

Each floods your mind with wonder at the lives behind them.

The tangled web of relationships that you could draw between so many of the frames in this gallery,

To see the mundane and the sublime treated so thoughtfully,

Elevated to the same level of reverence,

Makes you feel incredibly warm inside,

Makes you feel the impact and importance of each moment.

And now,

As your eyes trace the spaces between the gilded frames,

You land upon a picture that's terribly familiar.

Because it's a picture of you,

A picture from years ago,

Wrapped in embrace with an old friend you haven't seen in a long time.

You almost lift a hand to reach out and take it,

But you hold back,

Though your eyes smile from behind the glass,

It's not your photograph to take,

You never had it in your possession.

In fact,

You're not sure you've ever seen it before.

It must have belonged to your friend,

And perhaps they had it pinned to a corkboard in their bedroom for years before it was lost in a move or fell behind a dresser to collect dust.

You wonder if they'll ever find their way to this mysterious place to retrieve it.

Anyway,

You like how it looks on the wall,

In the company of so many other loving images and memories.

Even if you could take it with you,

You don't think you would.

You look to Cobb,

Whose eyes have grown kinder in the time you've been here.

It's beautiful,

You say.

It's wonderful,

He blushes,

Face breaking into a bashful grin.

Oh,

He says,

Well,

Like I said,

Of all the time in the world,

You have the distinct impression your guide has never heard praise like this.

You wonder how long it's been since someone was here to witness all his work,

And you wonder,

Too,

Why he's here at all.

Is his relegation to the Hall of Lost Things a kind of penance for some earthly misdeed,

Like Sisyphus and his rock?

Whatever the reason,

You are moved tremendously by the care and admiration with which he's handled the lost possessions of his private realm.

Though few may ever see it,

He's done a great kindness here.

You're thankful to have found your way in.

Taking your final glances at the exquisitely framed memories,

You follow Cobb through one last archway.

Penny the magpie kicks off from his shoulder to fly upward,

Then you follow the black and white streaks of her plumage with your gaze.

Here is a room,

Cylindrical in shape,

That dazzles the eye and mind.

Around on the walls are shelves and shelves of books,

Climbing upward on an endless helix.

You're reminded of the architecture of the Guggenheim Museum in New York,

With its spiral galleries along a central stairway.

These shelves extend so high that they disappear into blurry whiteness above,

As if there's no ceiling,

But a blanket of clouds or mist.

You must have every book in the world here,

You say,

Mouth agape,

Marveling.

Well,

There are quite a few duplicates,

Cobb mutters,

But very nearly.

Took me ages to alphabetize,

And new ones arrive every day.

You imagine Cobb cataloging millions of books,

Sorting through the works of the Bronte sisters and numerous collections of Shakespeare.

How many of these books,

You wonder,

Once sat on someone's comfort shelf?

Like those you keep in your bedroom,

All those levels below.

Your room feels very far away just now,

And yet you feel very much at home.

How will I find the one I'm looking for?

You inquire,

Glancing at the spines of the closest books.

At this,

Cobb leads you to what looks like the machinery of an antique elevator.

Along the wall,

Every book he's ever logged has a unique code,

Like the decimal system used in libraries.

All he needs is an author's name,

Or the title.

At this,

You bite your lip.

You can't remember the author's name,

Or the exact title,

Only a few details about the contents.

It was so very long ago that you last picked it up,

But what you do know,

You supply to Cobb,

Who scratches his chin as he thinks,

But within a few moments,

Something comes to him.

He turns to the brass buttons and presses them in a precise sequence,

Taking a moment to think between each.

After pressing more buttons than you manage to count,

He takes the brass lever in his hands and pulls down with some effort.

The metal groans as if it hasn't been moved in some time,

But gives way.

Then,

With a series of clicks and gutters,

Like the turning of great gears and cogs in a clock tower,

The room begins to rotate.

No,

The walls.

Like a barber's pole turning around on itself so the stripes seem to ascend,

The helical shelves move around and down.

Bringing your selection spiraling to you,

Before your eyes flash the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm,

Beloved books by Kenneth Graham and F.

Scott Fitzgerald,

The entire bibliography of Charles Dickens,

And the collected poems of Emily Dickinson.

Slowly,

The spiral comes to a thundering stop.

Cobb crosses to the other side of the cylindrical space.

Penny floats down and lands upon the edge of the bookshelf.

Let's see,

Cobb says.

Might this be the one?

You examine the spine of the book he indicates.

There's only one way to know for sure.

You slide the book,

A well-preserved paperback,

From its snug position between the others.

The moment you see the cover,

You're certain.

The watercolor gradient of orange and yellow,

The illustration of a golden chariot drawn by four white horses,

In which rides a shining sun god.

You press the book to your chest,

As though its very physical presence can worm you through.

And it does.

Yes,

You say,

Filling with emotion.

This is the one.

Well then,

Says your guide.

You found what you were looking for.

I can show you the way back now.

You turn to look at him and notice a twinge of sadness in his eye.

The realization,

Perhaps,

That he's sorry to see you go.

Thank you,

You say.

For this place,

He blushes again.

And without another word,

He whistles for Penny to hop to his shoulder again,

And leads you out of the hall of lost books.

You retrace your steps through the otherworldly corridors and chambers.

Like Theseus,

Following the thread to lead the youth of Athens from the labyrinth.

You revisit the gallery of photographs,

The jewelry displays,

And the long hallway filled with collectible figurines.

Then down the stairs to the atrium,

Where forgotten treasures have freshly fallen in a heap.

The rest of the way,

I think you know,

Says your guide.

Goodbye,

Seeker.

Goodbye,

Cobb,

You say,

Heartful of thanks.

Slowly,

You turn toward the staircase that brought you here,

Ready to descend once more into your attic.

But before you take the first step down,

You realize that somewhere along this strange journey,

You must have set down your flashlight,

And you're loathe to take on the dim stairway without it.

You look back,

Wondering if Cobb has seen where you misplaced it,

Or even if it's already found its way into the pile of lost belongings in the middle of the floor.

But when you turn around,

You don't see Cobb at all.

Penny is diving in and out of the ever-growing pile of objects and artifacts.

She emerges with a gold pocket watch,

Clutched by the chain in her beak.

Right where Cobb once stood,

However,

There is something.

A candle.

A single white candle,

Burning on an old-fashioned saucer with a handle for holding.

You think,

Puzzled,

About Cobb's choice of headwear.

The candle snuffer he wore as a hat.

All you can think is that he left this little light behind,

Knowing you'd need it.

So you pick up the saucer,

Feeling the flickering warmth of the candle on your face,

And bidding farewell to Penny the magpie,

Who chirrups amiably.

You begin to descend the staircase to your own familiar attic.

You'll read by candlelight tonight,

Wrapped up in blankets,

Holding your first teddy like you never grew out of it,

Knowing that whatever may become lost along your journey may be found again,

Or may be picked up by someone who needs it.

Tonight,

You'll read by the light of the past,

The light of memory,

The light of your inner child who abides.

Reviews

Wow, Laurel, thank you🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻I don’t know how many nights I have listened and fallen asleep, over and over, never even getting to the part of the rooms of lost things. And then I started to immediately push forward till there, and listen and fall asleep from there. Several times I got to the hall of forgotten books, yet still did not get to the end. Probably I have still missed out on lots of details. But wow, wow, wow: what an imagination, and superbly told! Thank you, thank you, thank you, and…happy 2025! 🙏🏻🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🙏🏻

I absolutely love this sleep story. It helps me get ready for a good nights sleep!
Thank you

Beautiful and so imaginative and tender. I wanted her to thank him for the special room of lost thoughts. I let myself lay at 1pm on a Tuesday to sleep and listened all the way through. Thank you.