I'm made of rope or woven thread, without a floor, I'm still a bed. I'm a bridge between two trees, a see-through swaying breeze.

I house the past for all to see, in halls of quiet history. With curated works and stories told, through glass and frames, the past unfolds.

I am another word for piece of, as in piece of glass. It's hard to guess. That is why the answer is in this riddle. What am I?

Guardian of treasures, small yet mighty, turning the key is the only way to free what's held tight.

I speak without a single word, yet still my message can be heard. By flashing light or unseen flow, I tell you when to stop or go.