Dinner plate of great grandmother, her husband's pen with its rusted nib, tattered books of a lost aunt with its moth-eaten edges bearing mute testimony to an era that has faded into oblivion. Antiquities took refuge in the dark corners of the house, gathering dust. If materials had hearts, they must be very scared that may be the very next moment they will be tossed away. A nuisance, taking up much-needed space in an already congested house, perhaps the humans living there looking for the next opportunity to show the objects the door.