I remember standing on the precipice, where earth meets timelessness. My gaze stretched over the horizon, searching for lost ages beneath cobwebs and starlight. Here, whispers of centuries lingered, and shadows told tales better left unheard.
It was in the winter of 1835 when Anabel first stumbled upon the old journal, its pages faded like forgotten dreams. The words spun tales of midnight excursions, where echoes danced through graveyard gates left ajar. Time came alive in her hands, pulsing like a heartbeat against her palm.
"Tomorrow is but a dream from yesterday's shadows," she read, forward remnants of a past that bore no future. The timekeeper's lament echoed with each rusted tick, graveyard gates failing to seal the cursed narrative. And still, the horizon beckoned her name in a whisper barely remembered by the stars.
As the final line traced her fate, Anabel felt the chilling embrace of winds from ages unspoken. The cracks of time whispered secrets the stars dared not reveal. And in the stretching dusk, the ever after was but a reach away.