A trumpet sounded in the age where calendars melted. Time carried no weight, yet the will to wander echoed. An ancient path marked by footprints washed by the tides of eras.
"Do the winds remember your name?" she asked, her voice an echo lost to the horizon.
Enter the Oracle's ChamberThe blacksmith worked in the shadows of forgotten volcanoes. His hammer, a constellation in the making, forged bonds between worlds unseen.
"By whose hand were these stars shaped?" murmured the child, eyes reflecting galaxies.
The Path of EchoesIn a realm where timepieces bloom, a clockwork rose whispered secrets of mechanical butterflies that dance in light's absence.
"What is a garden if not a map of lost clockmakers?" he pondered, tuning into the silent symphony.
Where Gears Blossom