Once, beneath the shadow of a clock that ticked backward, I found myself waiting. The waiting was an eternity folded into a moment, and in that pause, I remembered the smell of fresh ink as it bonded with paper in a secret letter written to a future I never expected to embrace.
The portal opened like a mouth of forgotten memories, and I stepped through. The world shifted shades as the hues of history caressed the present. I stood in a silent carnival, where laughter echoed like a distant song sung by shadows of the past. People dressed in vintage clothes passed me by, their faces painted with smiles that held stories untold, leaving whispers of time lost in their wake.
As I traced the outline of a dream in the air, I stumbled upon a market of possibilities. Here, vendors sold moments in jars, collecting the dew of dreams that spilled into reality. I inquired about the cost, but the seller merely smiled, his eyes twinkling with the currency of understanding.
Returning to the present, I found sand slipping through my fingers like time itself. Each grain a memory, each breath a reminder of the transient nature of existence. I penned another letter, not to a destination, but to the endless in-betweens where time travelers find solace in the echoes of their own footsteps.