In the year of forgotten whispers, when neon vines crawled across rusted steel and the sun was a distant memory, I found a clock made of dreams. It ticked softly, measuring not time, but the space between thoughts. I reached inside its glass heart and pulled out a memory of a future where yesterday was different. The streets sang songs they never sung before, echoing pasts that were only ever imagined. In this world, a woman danced under the rain, her laughter weaving through the mist like a forgotten lullaby.
Have you ever walked the roads of another life? I did once, guided by the shimmering light of a star that was already burnt out. It led me to a marketplace where voices buzzed like trapped fireflies, their words a tapestry of futures yet to be written. I bought nothing but stories wrapped in parchment, their ink still wet from the dreams of their authors. As I turned away, the star’s light flickered in recognition, as if it knew the paths my feet would take.