In the year of the muted sun, I stumbled upon a rose with gears for petals. Each tick brought forth an aroma that spoke of forgotten Novembers.
"To bloom in silence prepares one for the grandest of symphonies," uttered the rose, its voice like sand slipping through an eternal hourglass.
Beneath the whispers of the ageless oak, the stones murmured tales of shifting sands. New days became old nights in the blink of a memory.
"Your footprints echo in the corridors of time," a voice murmured from roots deep and unfathomable.
The wind carried secrets of its own, tales spun from threads of sunlight and shadows. There was laughter in its breath, like a song sung over a cup of eternity.
"Time, my dear, is but a playful sprite," the wind whispered, entwining around the leaves with mischief.