There is a bottle with an octopus inside of it on a table

in the dimly lit room, a mysterious black bottle with twisted tentacles rests on a worn wooden table. the corked top of the bottle hints at secrets untold. the air is thick with anticipation, as if time has paused to listen to the whispers of ancient magic contained within the glass depths. suddenly, a gust of wind rushes through the open window, causing the tentacles on the bottle to writhe and twist in a frantic dance. they reach out like desperate hands, grasping for something unseen but real. their movements create a mesmerizing pattern that swirls around the bottle, making it appear as if the glass itself is alive. the surrounding atmosphere changes rapidly. the previously still air now carries an electric charge, crackling with energy. the wooden table begins to quiver beneath the weight of the bottle, and the faint aroma of something sweet and musky fills the room. as quickly as it started, the rush stops. the tentacles cease their chaotic movement, and the air returns to its previous state of calm. the bottle remains undisturbed on the table, the only sign of the recent rush being the slightly more disheveled appearance of the tentacles.

(child),