Sometimes, in the breath of ancient woods, I meet the softly spoken past. In the dapples of sunlight filtering through leaves, stories are woven tight as my great-grandmother's quilt. Once, I strayed too far, and only the whisper of a crumbling parchment guided me back.
An inscription from an Era Uncharted: "Upon the whispering wind, rides the echo of silence from ages untold..."
In a moment suspended, I witnessed the ephemeral dance of gears in a mechanical night. The tick tock sang of futures unwritten, and in that rhythm, I felt the pull of forgotten dreams shrouded in morning mist. I, now a vigilant observer, calibrate with time where fate's essence weaves.
Drifting through the Antiquity: "A time not yet emerged, where shadows cast longer tales in the forenoon glow..."