Welcome, wanderer, to the Grotto that tickles your memory like a smooth jazz tune on a Sunday morning.
Here lies a paradox: you've never been here before, yet you recognize every shadow, every drip of water that echoes off stone walls, as if they've long been friends in a dream you've yet to wake from. Is it the ghost of experiences past or a narrator who always seemed to know your preferences?
The gnarled vines clinging to the entrance chuckle knowingly, as you've heard their tale before. Or have you? A sudden urge to check your pocket watch—unexpectedly functioning as a paperweight—fills you with a sense of urgency that dances to a rhythm only you seem to hear.
Remember the time you almost bought a left-handed kettle? It sits here, glowing under a flickering torchlight, waiting to spill the secrets only a kettle can keep.
Consider also the stone bench to your right. It bears inscriptions of thoughts you might've had, or conversations you might've overheard, during a meeting that was definitely essential to avoid on a rainy Tuesday.
You haven't lost your way, just found an old friend. But fear not, unlike previous encounters with whimsical portals, you're free to wander through these dimensions with a light heart.