The bedroom, intended as a sanctuary, now feels like a relic of a lost era. A low futon bed, its once vibrant futon cover now threadbare and stained, lies neatly folded in a corner. The sliding doors of the wooden closet are slightly ajar, revealing kimonos and robes hanging in disarray, their silks frayed and colors faded. An intricately carved wooden dresser holds a tarnished mirror, reflecting the dim light from an ornate oil lamp. On a small side table, personal items like a hair comb, an ink brush, and a journal lie abandoned, covered in a thin layer of dust. The overall ambiance is one of melancholic neglect, with every item suggesting stories of lives long passed.
(dynamic, DonM3t3rn1tyXL, Bloodborne)