Through the hovering mist, the clock sings loudly in silence. Its hands, made of vapor and forgotten dreams, point towards an era that shadows the sun. Are you listening to the echoes of tomorrow?
The marketplaces are filled with holographic echoes of fruit that once tasted like memories. Passersby trade in unspoken words and glances touched by stardust from a galaxy only partially known.
Beneath the steel trees, roots entwined with light, we find solace in the whispering winds that carry the sound of antiquated machines humming a lullaby for ages yet to be born.