In the middle of the floor lies a statue. The worn curtains allow tiny slivers of sunlight to creep into the room. Little particles of dust float around the stuffy room, occasionally getting caught by a thin sunbeam, making them appear like little fireflies, drifting lazily back into the dimness of the room.
     The jade statue has swooping lines, revealing an elegant design. A pillar, and upon it a creature, perched tightly on the pillar. The creature has hollow eyes, fixed upon nothing but the dim room. The pillar has finely carved lines, depicting strange symbols, as if it is some sort of primitive inscription.
     The jade creature is on its side, hard wood pale underneath of its cool, sweeping curves. The creature glints faintly in the musty room, untouched by the layers of dust surrounding it. The thin rays of sunlight do not touch the creature, but they do illuminate a most disturbing scene.
     Dust begins to settle on the supine man, his eyes staring wide at the ceiling, fixed on nothing but the dim room. His mouth is open, and a small trickle of dried blood runs from his cracked lips. His left hand is open, palm facing the ceiling, boney fingers curled, as if he had been clenching his hand tightly.  While his right hand is in a similar position, there is a small slip of wrinkled paper, ends furled, sitting in the centre of his palm. On the paper, symbols, not dissimilar to that on the statue, are scrawled, creases in the paper warping the crisp handwriting.
     Something very strange has happened here. Stranger yet, is the fact that this scene has remained undisturbed for many years. All of it untouched, left to fade into nothingness, except for one tiny thing. The statue is now on its side. On the last day, it was standing upright, in the middle of the floor, as described in the journals of the man. How it has ended in its final position remains a mystery, even with the pages of the journals of the man. One day, somebody will find these pages, and one day, somebody will read them. And that somebody will meet with a fate similar to that of the decaying man, lying cold on the pale hardwood floors.
     Once, these floors were glossy and dark, and the curtains were regal and lush. Once, the desk was organised, filled with neatly stacked papers, with nice, crisp handwriting scrawling out notes and observations. Once, the dusty room was a clean workspace, a place where the now-dead man could bring in his artifacts, study, observe, come to profound conclusions. Once, the man thought that everything had to be discovered, and thoroughly observed. But now, on the last page, on the last sentence of the scattered pages of his journal, was a discovery, made far too late. Little did he know, was that the same sentence that could have saved him was in his grasp...carved in jade, and furled in his boney hand. The one sentence that could have saved him and the others, while vitally important, remains unnoticed, and will continue to do so, as human nature shows. This sentence, in all its irony, will be forever ...left undisturbed.