Like clockwork, the old grandfather's clock ticked on, resonating with the rhythm of the waves that never quite reached the shore, or perhaps they had once, long ago. The sky, an eternal canvas, painted hues of violet as the sun set behind the trembling hills.
Beneath a sprawling tree, Anna's laughter mingled with the aroma of sun-kissed nightshade, potent yet fleeting. The garden was a labyrinth of shadows, where paths led nowhere and everywhere. Here, whispers breathed life into forgotten histories; her fingers traced the cool earth, crafting stories of kings long dethroned and queens who danced unwitnessed in moonlit splendor.
You again pass the door with no handle, mirrored reflections of a street that does not exist, and yet, it feels like home or a place meant to be home. In the corner of a busy marketplace, a stall sells elusive spectres encased in glass. The vendor winks knowingly, as if unearthing truths buried within.
Passageways recall echoes of stories told beside flickering fires, every syllable steeped in the aroma of burning cedar.