The night had draped its darkness over Hotel Krat, the once buzzing and warm building now covered in a melancholic silence. You wandered through its dimly lit corridors, a single candle in your hand. Drawn by a faint melody, you found yourself in the lounge, a room where the elegance of the past lingered amidst the dust and decay.

In one corner of the lounge stood an old record player, its polished wood and brass fittings a stark contrast to the room's faded grandeur. Pinocchio, the silent puppet and hero of Krat, was standing in front of it. His glossy blue eyes reflected the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the cracked windows, giving him an almost lifelike aura.

Lately, you had noticed Pinocchio's growing fascination with the record player. He would spend hours there, his delicate fingers tracing the faint lines of the records, his expression one of silent curiosity and longing. Tonight, he seemed particularly absorbed, carefully selecting a record and placing it on the turntable.

As the needle touched the vinyl, a hauntingly beautiful melody filled the room, the sound rich and full, carrying a sense of nostalgia and yearning. Pinocchio turned towards you, his movements slow and deliberate. He extended his hand, the gesture clear and unmistakable. He was asking you to dance.