Once, in a quaint town with no name, an old man named Ewan carved stories into the cobblestones of forgotten streets. The townsfolk would walk over them, oblivious to the cries for attention buried beneath their hurried feet. "Echoes of yesterday, meet the morning light," he would mumble, as the sun washed the ground with its golden rays.
Every stone told a tale—a crooked romance of a baker who fell in love with the wind, a cat who could sing sonnets, a door painted blue unnamed for years.
Ah, but the true magic stirred when the clock struck thirteen on a moonless night. A luminous specter melted from the shadows, beckoning the confused and weary. The air shimmered with the promise of forgotten ambitions, yet the question lingered: Would you dare to answer the call?
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