In the heart of machinery, where whispers of antiquity mingle with the sigh of cold steel, lies a realm untouched by warmth. Here, the echo is perennial, repeating moments lost to the ages, captured in an unfeeling embrace of gears and levers.
Time does not discover; it constructs. The eternal echo of creation's murmur, a hymn devoid of loving breath, tickers on—silent, relentless, immortal.
The gears of the echo chamber spin, murmuring tales lost to time's indifferent grasp. Perpetual movement beneath the shadow of ancient titan, bending artifacts of mechanical cries—and yet, the silence remains, thicker than the void it fills.