In the age of fleeting pixels and shimmering circuits, nestled between the folds of a forgotten tome, lies the origin of origins. Whispered stories told by the lantern-lit specters of those who coded under the moon's weary gaze.
The machines sang their own anthems, algorithms dancing in tandem to a symphony of rust and dust. Each permutation a step back in time’s river, tracing pathways forgotten but imprinted in the silicon fragments of yesteryears.
Does the code remember?
The answer lies not in ones and zeros, but in the rustle of ancient parchment—a record of scripts that never were, or were perhaps long ago, in a world where clocks spun counterclockwise and shadows followed their own light.