The clock struck thirteen, its melody resonating across the cobblestone street lined with
Victorian houses, their windows shuttering against the autumn chill. There, among the steaming
breaths of the past, lingered the scent of forgotten libraries and the echo of whispered prayers.
In a small, dust-choked office, illuminated by a sputtering gas lamp, a figure clad in a velvet
waistcoat scribbled against time's relentless march. His pen danced upon the page, weaving tales
of clockmakers and aerial voyages, whose inventions stirred somewhere between midnight's reach
and dawn's embrace.
Beyond that office, a modern yet surreal city pulsated—a city of light and shifting steel.
Pixels merged with whispers, tethering the old tales to an electric hum coursing through the veins
of digital alleys. An anachronistic ballet unfolded, where artisans traded neon-studded masks and
stories of arcane rituals performed under the glow of LCD moons.
Who were these merchants of dreams? Friends of the past, reflections of a history unwritten, or
shadows flickering at the edge of recognition?