musty
Arthur's fingers pressed the keys of that old typewriter with a gentle fondness that Alfred could not understand. The thing was as old as Arthur, and he'd bought the man a new computer for his birthday, complete with state-of-the-art keyboard, and Arthur still insisted on using that damn typewriter to do his work. Sometimes he wondered if Arthur was an old soul trapped in the body of a 23 year old.
That little girl loved her feather boa. It was long and fluffy, white feathers soft as silk jutting out from it. It was dirty from all the times she'd dragged it around with her, and the feathers were starting to fall off, but she loved it just the same.
And her bones were so thin that they broke like glass and bent like twigs. And she was small and fragile and her mother tried to protect her, but we all must go out into the real world someday. And the real world snapped her like a stick.