A haze. A stream. A halo. A warm unknowing light beamed into the room illuminating all in its path through a large rosewood French window. Long English pink curtains swept apart, held in place by golden tassels: obscuring the boarder of the perfect solar luminance. Delicate rose petals, blinking in the light. The coveted sun beam displayed a large bed in the soft shape of a heart. It had a tall head board in a shade not dissimilar to that of the drapes with strong black studs as if raised out to herald in the heavens. The sheets themselves were a bright, untouched, white; perfectly clean. Warm, with soft feather pillows embossed with a delicate fluttery rose swirl upon it; a corrupting black swirl in old-fashioned calligraphy.
Behind, a wall coated in soft pinkish paper embossed with deep black swirls like vines growing in a spring garden. Though the wall was clearly old, not a crack or crevice disrupted its impermeable surface. A sweet ivory boarder marked the peak of the wall. The floor lay undisturbed in the subtle light with perfect delicate oaken panels pressured by their closeness to touch. Across from the bed, a tall white sweeping dressing table stretched wide with beautiful ornate carvings in wonderous spirals. Beneath four curved legs, a miniature set of ivory drawers with three identical rose gold knobs each with an old polished matching lock beneath them. Locked. Upon the surface of the dressing table, a thick pale spread with delicate French lace woven gently into elaborate patterns. Atop it, a soft collection of translucent perfume bottles, make up brushes with white untouched bristles, a large amount of light make up, a silvery pearl necklace and a small heart shaped golden box – also locked – what could lie within remains unclear. The room lay still: A rose in a world of thorns.
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