The lantern flickers in shadows of 1894, casting hues across the cobblestones where a soft, lamenting hum curls through the chilly alley. Here, an old songbird sang by gaslight, whispering secrets of the eternal dawn.
In a brief blink — 23 August, 2215 — I watched as people floated overhead, supported by their translucent platforms, their attention tethered to holographic symphonies scattering prisms of light across the elder trees.