Remember the whispers of autumn? Squirrels danced in the fallen leaves, etching bold futures in golden acorns. The ticker kept pace with their nimble minds, though no one could decipher its ancient runes.
Once, a grey gentleman in a top hat whispered secrets beneath the velvet sky, selling dreams for a handful of twigs. "Invest wisely," he said, "for winter waits for no one."
And there was the market square, draped in fog, where misty hands exchanged brittle stocks for promises of springtime blossoms. But what is spring, if not a mirage in the desert of time?
Outside the exchange, the world spun on misaligned axes. Raccoons plotted the downfall of the unclear moon, while hedgehogs founded dynasties beneath the stairs of forgotten libraries.
Here lies the complex labyrinth of squirrel economics, where the currency of trust falters like a distant star, and every leap is a gamble against the tide of reality.