Time murmurs in hushed tones here. Beneath the overgrown vines, the stones of this isle whisper stories only the brave can hear.
Once, a traveler spoke of cascading years, tumbling like leaves in autumn's sigh.
They emerged from the thicket in a suit woven from April twilights, March shadows dancing behind them.
Was it last week or a year from then that the brass clock blinked? Moths fluttered against its face, sparks leaping like angry bubbles.
"Catch the heartbeat of history," it seemed to whisper.
They say some things can only be seen from the corner of one’s eye — no, *seen*, not observed.
Distant echoes of laughter drift from the shoreline, where memories wade in eternal slumber.
Join us under the mariner’s moon, where the stars anchor vessels of the 5:09 train to Yesteryear.
We step not upon the sands of futures past, but dance among their shadows.