In a dream, the clock read 3:15, and my reflection whispered secrets of 1857's autumn winds.
She spoke of markets under the gaslight's glow, of shadows that flickered like elusive memories.
I wandered amid cobblestones that murmured in foreign tongues, and in the distance – a misplaced echo of my name.
The sea unfolded tales from the year 2212, where marble statues wept under an azure sun,
and digital rain shimmered in an orchestra of falling binary meteors.
A fisherman, donning a net made of light, sang songs of forgotten lunar tides.