The walls held more than mere decorations; they were silent witnesses to lifetimes, both human and animal. In this sanctuary, the relics seemed to pulse with their own histories, each piece echoing a tale of survival or conquest. The room’s silence was broken only by the distant hum of city life, muffled behind the curtains. For over sixty-five years, these ornaments had rested here, outliving the creatures whose bodies they preserved.
The new act demanded the removal of every animal trophy and ancient weapon from the walls. Officials pulled down mounted skins and tusks, their movements precise, almost surgical. The legendary sword of Arthur, once gleaming behind glass, was seized alongside the bow and arrows of Cupid. Each confiscation felt like a blow—history stripped away, leaving bare spaces where stories once lingered.
One by one, the trophies and weapons were thrown into the incinerator, their forms twisted and melted by unforgiving heat. The DNA of animals—once preserved, now obliterated. The artifacts, symbols of a lifetime’s devotion, vanished in plumes of smoke. The crowd, unable to speak their grief, watched as history was consumed by fire, words lost to the ashes.
The Collector was left with nothing but memories, his hands aching from holding what could not be saved. He remembered the animals who lived for decades, their lives extended by the art of preservation. He mourned the weapons that once told tales of valor and legend, now reduced to molten metal. "They have burnt everything, even the words I would have spoken to remember," he whispered into the void.
The replacements offered little comfort. Artificial relics, fabricated to mimic what was lost, betrayed their origins with every glance. The legendary artifacts—gone, replaced by deception. The Collector stared at these new ornaments, unable to find meaning, his grief deepened by the charade of preservation.
The white box room was a final refuge, a place where secrets could be kept, relics preserved for some future age. Here, the Collector imagined a mummy—his own history packed away, hidden from those who would destroy it. He spoke to the silence, recounting all that had been lost. "My tusks, my skins, my flesh—gone. But I will keep their memory, even as the fires burn," he vowed.
The acts of destruction had left scars, but not silence. In the absence of tangible history, the Collector found strength in memory and story. The relics were gone, their ashes scattered, but the tales remained—quiet, persistent, waiting to be told anew. History, though limited, endured in the words of those who cared enough to remember.
