On that day, the sun had crawled backward above the horizon, whispering secrets of ancient futures to the trees that swayed in nostalgic melancholy. The clock stood still, hands trapped mid-pause, yet time slipped along unseen rails.

"You must enter," the guide said, her voice echoing from a time before clocks claimed dominion over worlds. Behind her stood the archway, a doorway oscillating between the light of long-lost moments and shadows of what is yet to be.

An anecdote unwound: a traveler named Aeon ventured once to the eventide of the forgotten sun, where holographic wolves danced in cybernetic fields. He marveled at how even the digital carpet absorbed whispers of quantum particles.

"Take heed, for the present is only a well-told story," replied the historian known only as J, seated among holographic timelines, each flickering with a life unlived.