In April of 3021, I stood atop the eternal cliff in a place that no travel guide dares to pinpoint. The horizon exhaled a breath of nebulous hues. I wondered, briefly, if the wind carried whispers from civilizations yet to be born. The landscape, oddly familiar yet alien, felt like a page from my grandmother’s diary.
Much like the stars tracing their incandescent arcs, I too have traced back the footsteps of my ancestors, leaving behind all that is and all that was to explore what could be. Accidental time slips! We joked, striding through epochs like a child meandering through seasons. Remember the night when the moon rose threefold? Or the afternoon you brewed tea from twilight dew?
And yet, amidst our humor, a solemn truth—time is neither friend nor foe, simply a slipstream that beckons, confounds, and ultimately molds our very being. It was there, in the heart of the distant past, that I first understood the harmony hidden within the echoes of every star.
Curious travelers may find their way to other chronicles: Whispers of Tomorrow or Dust of Forgotten Trails.