In one universe, the skies that had turned violet only during the storm now echoed with a strange softness. It was as if the brume of bygone days whispered untold stories, their chapters lingering in the surreal haze.
The man paused on the cobbled street, pausing under the flickering streetlamp whose light danced erratically. In his pocket, a crinkled note from a forgotten friend read simply: "Meet me where shadows converse."
The girl picked up the locket where time had rusted the engraving, tracing what could have been a familiar face. They always said she had an echo of something lost, but she never fully understood what they meant.
Perhaps it was the echo of a dimension slightly askew, whispering realms where choices diverged and converged like streams of silver on the horizon.