In the beginning: We came upon the rain, unending, as it carved our footsteps into the stone of history. The chronicles of our beginnings were written in the rhythm of droplets, finding solace in their predictable descent. "Have you seen the sun?" a child asks, and we reply, "The sun is a forgotten whisper."
The Age of Echoes: I remember when the clock tower rang twice, and the rain danced to its somber melody. The merchants spoke of droughts and parched lands in distant cities, but here, the rain was our constant companion. "Does time matter, if it cycles?" pondered an old sage, "In cycles, we are reborn."
Modern Reflections: Today, we stand beneath the infinite curtain, devices in hand, capturing the illusion of moments. The rain falls, indifferent to our thirst for meaning. A voice from a podcast echoes, "In perpetual rain, we find our cycles, both comforting and confining." Are we the narrators or mere echoes ourselves?