In the hushed moments between seconds, I found a song unsung. It echoed within the gilded corridors of a forgotten era, a cacophony of symphonies suspended in reality's flux. The song was a whisper from a world we used to know—a melody stitched with the silken threads of time's gentle deceit.
There stood a clock, not marking hours, but memories. Inside its glassy core, fragments of laughter and tears danced, constantly reshaping like the tides of an unrelenting ocean. The tick-tock was not of seconds but of possibilities, each beat a universe in itself, endlessly unspooling.
I stepped closer, drawn by the resonance of missed notes. There was no conductor, no ensemble, yet the orchestra played on, hidden behind the veil of what was, what is, and what might still be. Would the songs ever find their singers again? Or would they remain echoes lost in time?
If you listen closely, you'll hear it too—a resonance of destinies, a chorus of dreams left in the hands of fate.
Traverse whispered realms, or perhaps crossroads of thought.