"In the twilight, the whispers begin, a chorus of voices long lost."
A voice trembles through the mist: "Do you remember the gardens that bloomed beneath the moon's gaze?" A memory of petals unfurling at night, each fragrance a story untold, echoes in the air.
"Beneath the ancient oak, we carved our names," another voice murmurs, softer this time, like a breeze through long-abandoned halls.
The clock, an artifact in the shadows, ticks slowly. "Time is a river, flowing in reverse," it seems to say, each tick a reminder of moments past, slipping through the fingers of reality.
The echoes fade away... Continue the Journey