In the 2230s, whispers told of the last forgotten sunrise.
Echoing laughter from ages past, faint yet present.
She stepped into the 1920s speakeasy, her aura foreign,
the music dipping in and out of another century.
"You'll never find your way back," cautioned the tall figure in Victorian garb.
Time, it seems, is a labyrinth, not a path.
Sometimes, war-torn streets echo with unwritten tomorrows,
silently waiting for their fated redemptions.