"Back in '42, the world spun a little differently," murmured the man with the clockwork eyes.
I remember the chime of the 13th hour, a sound that broke the monotony of our conventional time-telling. It was a peculiar contraption, a watch so delicate it felt wrong to wear on the wrist. My grandfather had once told me it was built to summon moments lost between pages, those fleeting seconds lost to the world when you browsed too long in the library of eternity.
"What’s the time in '72, anyway?" she asked, adjusting her circular glasses that reflected memories from various epochs.
The question hung in the air, swirling like autumn leaves caught in an invisible dance. I could picture '72 vividly, a year my parents often reminisced about. The streets were filled with color, morality challenged at every turn, as voices clamored to be heard above the static of complacency.
"Time's just a suggestion," he replied with a sly grin, slipping a silver coin between his fingers.
We devised our own paths through the timeline, creating tributaries diverging from the well-worn currents. Some preferred the whispers of the past, gently echoing through corridors we never cared to walk. Others sought the siren calls of the future, yearning for the unknown's embrace. The coin, it seemed, had a story to tell, and its journey across his palm was a reminder that every tick held potential, every murmur a consequence yet undefined.
Wavescript Echo Escape Trace of Time