You won’t find it on any map. The Museum of the Misplaced appears only to those who’ve lost something they never meant to let go.
It sits at the edge of nowhere, tucked between a dream you can’t quite remember and a yesterday that won’t leave you alone. The building sighs with every step, its wooden bones aching with memory. Inside, time forgets how to tick.
A wall of glass cases holds single mittens, chipped teacups from long-lost tea parties, toy soldiers mid-salute—left behind mid-childhood. There’s a teddy bear with a torn ear who once guarded a little girl from nightmares. A music box still turns, though no one winds it. The lullaby stumbles, broken, but sweet.
