In the dim light of a perpetual twilight, where metal creaks harmonize with the moans of midnight phantoms, a story dances upon the lips of an antiquated clock. Its hands relentless, tracing circles through the fabric of night, weaving myths from the whispers of wandering shadows.
Upon this page lies a relic, a fragment from the archives of absurdity: A tale of a mechanized raven, with eyes like molten silver, perched upon the edge of an unseen world, croaking prophecies of forgotten destinies.
Beneath the clocktower, the world holds its breath. The air thickens with the scent of rust and rain as the gears beneath the cobbled stones spin tales of time gone by.