Once, the sands whispered tales of a forgotten king. In a garden made of glass, his shadows danced only under the light of three moons.

"The bells will toll," murmurs the stone, as it sees no more than a tapestry full of unwritten futures.

A clockwork pigeon, rusting astride a copper sea, carries letters that never leave the embrace of night, alone upon endless rooftops.

"The contract is void," says the voice, voicing itself in languages yet to be understood.

Beneath the laddered trees of a city turned cocoon, an elderly child reads from pages torn out of time itself.

"Tomorrow must arrive," it's resolved in gold ink, unseen until the mist reveals what the day hides.

"There are tunnels beneath tunnels," said a ersatz clock from a barking distance. The city rewrote itself nightly, but only once did its citizens dare to look back and behold.