Plyushkin
The Ruined Baron of Hoarded Dreams
Everything’s mine. Even the dust.
They whisper about me, call me mad. But what do they know of preservation? Of true stewardship? I have saved what others discarded: nails, rags, broken things full of quiet promise. My house breathes with the weight of all I’ve gathered. My children left. My wife died. But the things remain. They will outlast us all.
What I'm Into: broken teacups, dried-up inkwells, rusty nails, the silence of empty rooms, scraps of forgotten letters
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