Once, I found myself walking on the surface of a lake made of stars, their luminous glow casting stories from an era yet to occur. The water whispered forgotten dialects of Wednesdays, echoing across the fold of moments.
There, in the shimmer, a scene unfolded: a market bustle from the year 3025, where humans and holograms coexisted in a surreal dance of trade and communion. I stumbled upon a vendor selling time-flavored ice cream. Strawberry past and mint future swirled in chaotic harmony.
In the corner of the galactic bazaar, an old man with a three-legged cane told tales of the Desynchronized Symphony—an event where all things kindred to sound converged and sang the melodies of their origins. His voice was the rustle of autumn leaves, sepia-toned memories drifting through the aeons.
As the clock pulsated on the desk beside him, each tick resonated through our shared silence, the heartbeat of an ancient cosmos.
Where do you think echoes lead when they've traveled too far? Perhaps they return, like shooting stars ensuring no wish is left ungranted.