In the quiet of the workshop, time thrums softly. Here, the clock ticks backward, and the echoes of forgotten laughter blend with the scent of rust and romance.
A flicker of flame dances within a glass orb, casting shadows on delicate gears that pirouette in the twilight. The air hums with stories untold, waiting to be distilled into the elixirs of dreams.
Rest here, weary traveler, where whistles of the night tell tales of wanderers through veils of slumber.
Whispering Wisps guard the secrets of the Nebula Soirée.
Invisible ink spills across the parchment, yet the words are felt, as if painted with the hand of starlight. The dreams of tinkers, fleeting and ethereal, linger like dew upon the dawn.