The owl in a ball gown on the spiral staircase

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In an old tower, long forgotten amid creaking trees, a narrow spiral staircase leads downwards. The stonework is overgrown with ivy, the railing polished smooth by the ravages of time. It smells of dust and memories.
Slowly, with deliberate dignity, an owl places one foot in front of the other on the creaking steps. Its feathers shimmer silver in the light of the few remaining lamps, the glass above which has cracked. It wears a sweeping ball gown of midnight-blue velvet and delicate tulle that floats around it like mist. On its head sits a delicate tiara, so light that even time seems to overlook it. In its talons, it holds a small, golden pair of opera glasses.
There is no music below. No ball, no guest, not even an echo. Only the faint ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere below.
But the owl strides on. With poise. With pride. Not because anyone sees them – but because dignity has nothing to do with applause.