With the planks sanded and stained, the flowing grain of the wood was as gentle waves upon a shore. They were as still as any photograph if one had a mind for stillness, yet in the times of music and movement they played too, as if by some memory of living.
There was a light upon that wooden floor that danced and played as the feet of happy children might. It was as if, over those century-strong-browns, in a house that had felt so much love, every tiny action had conspired to create this beauty.
The wooden floor was a chorus of browns; they sung together, a capella of baritone hues that rose up into vibrant soprano notes. It was a fitting place for their new studio, a place for those new sounds to soak right in and join the spirit that was already there.
The floor was the forest browns, those many soulful hues that calmed the spirit and elevated the heart. I stretched my hand over the glossy surface, my finger prints touching the swirls of the grains. It had been made from a tree that fell in the autumn winds, one nature gave to us. Otherwise it would have been left to grow and this floor would be something else.
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