Whirlpool

Time bends like a forgotten spoon. I stand at the edge, where the waters part and the air thickens with whispering echoes. An hourglass sits, silently inverted, grains of sand forgotten in the currents beneath.

The whirlpool draws me in with an embrace colder than any winter's breath. I descend through layers of memory, each twist revealing remnants of laughter long turned to dust, moments suspended like moths in amber.

I hear voices from ages untold—distant, familiar yet strangely foreign—calling from the depths of twilight’s realm. They murmur of horizons unmet, of kingdoms erected in the shadow of the stars, beneath the eternal drift of time.