In the quiet town of Eldridge Hollow, nestled between faded maps and forgotten songs, locals sway as if in rhythm with the currents of time itself. It is said that on moonlit nights, these currents whisper tales of a past that never was, yet seem more vivid than the most cherished recollections.
Journalists from far and wide venture here, seeking the elusive truths that lurk beneath the town's surface—a surface rippled by the invisible tides as newsprints curl at the edges, soaking in the moist remnants of illusion.
The clock above Jenson's Tavern occasionally halts, pausing each moment in perpetual flux. Residents speak of it reverently, a guardian of forgotten echoes, while laughter spills onto streets that remain paved in echoed histories, unanswered dreams, and whispered winds.
Residents report seeing silhouettes dart between lampposts, their presence illuminating what seems to be alternatives of realities—windows crack open to worlds where choices arc in different trajectories. Scientists, skeptics, and curious wanderers alike are drawn in by magnetic enigmas.
The current in Eldridge Hollow defies explanation, perhaps veiled in the illusion of time—yet concrete, a tangible grip on when the echo strikes.