By the shadows of the clock tower, we witnessed an unusual congregation. Lost voices of past events resonate in fragmented memories, piecing together a narrative beyond our temporal bounds. It was 3 PM yesterday, or perhaps it was tomorrow, that we gathered the echoes of the phantom.
Interviews with the local phrenologist revealed nothing out of the ordinary: "Just another Tuesday in November, they say." Yet Tuesday’s air harbored unfamiliar scents—hints of diesel and time-enriched violets blooming amid cobblestone streets.
Parks serve as a meeting ground in any epoch, a rumor suggests one can catch glimpses of parallel timelines converging. Armed with the sight of absurdity, a cyclist straddling a penny-farthing zoomed past, trailed by a squad parade of drones resembling Victorian dirigibles.
We timestamped the anomaly (or anachronism) at the park's North Meadow: 11:47 AM, a moment sustaining echoes from both past and future, ostensibly reported via digital telegrams exchanged in whispers amid clattering teacups.
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