There once was a stream that carried whispers from forgotten eras. People used to flock to it, searching for clarity. Some heard echoes of ancient treaties, others the hints of future cities with glass towers piercing clouds. Now, only a few old souls wander by, remembering when these streams held promises instead of mere reflections.
Just outside the edge of town, beyond the perpetual hum of neon lights, the path forks into two. Briar paths entwined with tales of fae folk and idle wishers bloom under the artificial sky. Folk there barter daily with dreams brought from the past, trading time for ephemera. Have you ever wondered what's traded amid the dusk shadows?
In my grandfather's tales, a clock tower once resounded across these valleys. They say it never kept proper time but governed the pace of our wandering thoughts. Now the tower lies abandoned, its rusting hands frozen mid-tick. But those who stare closely say it reflects the true rhythm of hearts, one metronome beat at a time.