In the town where time is merely a suggestion, the clock strikes not for hours but for moments, fleeting and forgotten. The gardens whisper secrets to those who dare to listen, a conversation started by ghosts of long-past summers.
Am I walking on the cobblestones of this century or the next? Shoes tapping rhythms that belong to another life, another purpose. The postman reads the sky like an ancient script, delivering parcels wrapped in the nostalgia of yesterdays and tomorrows.
And there, in the café's corner, a newspaper lays open, its headlines old as the dust that dances above its pages. A war declared, or was it peace? The words echo in my mind, fragmented, reverberating through the corridors of time's strange architecture.