Amid the shadows of metalline grandeur, where gears whisper tales of yesteryears, the room sings. Its voice—a symphony of solitary pistons unfurling like petals in a forgotten garden. Here, the clock ticks not in seconds, but in memories unthreaded and rewoven, spun by the hands of a dispassionate artisan.
Within the cold embrace of steel and rivets, emotions are but errant signals failing to complete the circuit. Functionally flawed, yet desired: the heart’s clockwork pulses against the rhythm of unfeeling cogs. In this realm of fixed fortunes, breaths are measured not by beat, but by algorithm—an elegant yet despairing equation.
The walls hum a low, velvet tune; an echo of bygone wishes entangled with aether's silver threads. Yet, beyond the arcane framework lies a promise, elusive and intangible, much like the warmth of a sun-kissed horizon seen through an iron lattice.