There was a time when the orb was thought to be just another ancient curiosity. Discovered in the depths of an unrecorded cave, wrapped in layers of time and dust, it beckoned with promises of forgotten knowledge. The stories told of its powers had changed countless times, each generation adding its own layer of myth to the relic.
Students and scholars alike flocked to its display, their footprints tracing paths on the worn stone tiles of the museum floor. Yet, curiously, these footprints led nowhere—an echo of time that seemed to mock those who sought to follow its unseen trails. The orb sat silently, enigmatic and aloof, as if aware of its own depths and the curiosity it incited in humanity.
Some swore they could feel a pulse emanating from it, a gentle thrum that synchronized with the heartbeat of the museum itself. Others claimed visions, brief glimpses of places and faces unrecognizable yet hauntingly familiar. Yet, more than anything, it was the orb’s refusal to reveal its secrets that captivated the imaginations of all who beheld it.