In the murmuring dusk of yesterday's tomorrows, the glass bottles linger. Each contains a whisper of eternity's edge. In one, the echoes of stars never born; in another, the silence of epochs unspoken. The third holds the shimmer of a dawn that saw no night.
Rumor has it that sipping a drop allows one to glimpse the forgotten paths of history, where futures that never were tread upon the soil of possibilities. The alchemist's workshop lies empty, yet its scent of warm metals and distant moorlands still faintly lingers.
Would you dare to taste? Or simply observe the forgotten future through the prism of these ethereal brews? Each passage, a fleeting shadow in the timeline of what could have been.
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