A whisper carried on the winds of time spoke of a clock, whose hands danced counterclockwise. They told of
an era where minutes and hours were not tyrants but gentle skippers of the soul's midnight boat. John once
listened carefully, his ear pressed against a stranger's heart, who lived when the tide of time ebbed backwards.
One day in that timeless shimmer, he became the traveler, his jacket lined with echoes of
forgotten futures. "Cycle them once more," the trees murmured. Each tour around time's orchard brought
forth new tales, vibrant and drenched in moonlight.
A tune flickered from nowhere, inviting him to Whispering Wood, the name etched in soft gold upon a misty fog. Was it the forest he sought, or
merely the illusion of a path well-trod by dreamers?
Underneath an ancient willow, cottoned with the weight of yesteryears, John spun a story of moons
rising in the afternoons of an era poised impossibly mid-wink. While in the back of his mind, a faint radio
discord hummed — keep on spinning.
For in this Circle of Whispers, every turn laid bare a hidden parchment, revealing pages impossible to unwrite.
To escape the golden glade, one must find the past's key.