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Her black hair hung delicately against her ivory skin, her khaki overalls blending into the vanilla interior of the basement warehouse. ‘Why is everything the same color’, she though to herself. But it was of no matter; her soul was swelled with joy.
She walked down three flights of stairs, hopped into the seat of an oversized rocking chair, and then hopped down to the floor. The basement was dusty, ill-light, items of strange form were hidden under plastic coverings, and numerous plastic sheets
hung from the ceiling as separators. Apparently, the warehouse was under some type of renovation. She began making her way through the maze of plastic, when she reached an odd shaped figure. She threw off the plastic cover, and discovered a Victorian style trunk.
A figure began taking shape within a plastic separator to her left, out of her sight. The figure formed into a hand. The hand was of the same vanilla color of the basement, composed of a deteriorated clay substance. The hand slowly reached from the plastic and into her direction.
She got down on bended knees, and opened the truck. It gave way with little resistance, only a mild squeak from its hinges. The objects inside were wrapped individually in red velvet cloth. She ran her fingers gently across the hidden figures. . .

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