It was the day the clocks fell silent, and all that was left was the whisper of footsteps in the sand—footsteps belonging to a traveler lost in the labyrinth of yesterdays. They said he came from the future, where time was not a river but a mosaic.

As I listened, I heard echoes of laughter from centuries past, mingled with the scent of rain on forgotten streets. The traveler spoke of an echoing void, where every tick of the clock echoed into eternity. And yet, here, the sands shifted quietly, beneath a pale, indifferent sun.

Once, in a world where shadows danced with the light, I encountered a moment that slipped through the cracks of memory. There stood a child, holding a compass that pointed not north, but to days that had never been yet to come.

In that compass's gaze, I saw reflections of an age where whispers wove the fabric of reality, where every breath was a note in an endless symphony of time. I reached out to touch the child's hand, but all I found was the echo of a future that had yet to unfold.