"The skies were never as blue," she said, tracing the words as they floated like whispers in the dusty air of autumn.

"It was the summer of '83 that changed everything," reported the old man, his voice crackling like warm static on an abandoned frequency.

"They were here before we were," murmured a voice from the shadows, barely audible over the distant hum of the city.

"An anomaly, that's what they called it." The woman's tone was matter-of-fact, as if addressing a room already filled with ghosts.

Contemplating the paradoxes of existence, the voice suggested, "Perhaps we are merely echoes ourselves."

Curiously, beyond the timbre of past dialogues, a deeper truth seemed to resonate: "In the end, history is always rewritten."