In the warped echoes of forgotten clocks, every tick a gasp of time, moments spin, unravelled, forgotten. Voices, like borrowed melodies, played in reverse, whisper the secrets of unsung journeys.
What stories do these clocks hold? Listen, and you’ll hear the forest echo, a symphony mirrored in the dew-drenched dawn. A rusted tune lingers like an unfinished sonata, draped across the golden haze of memory.
There was a garden where shadows danced, and laughter rose like mist from the earth. Its forgotten gates now creak — a song about opening, closing, a rhythm lost in translation, yet ever present in the heart of the twilight gods.
A clock hands its hollow secret to you, echoing in silent increments, as past spirals back into itself, a reflection in the gaze of eternity.
Read about the hands that never stopped