The Gear-Heart's Whisper

They say the mechanics of the heart echo in every chamber, every rusting bolt is a memory, a sigh. Every tick, a breath—phosphorescent gears, glowing softly like forgotten stars. I wander through these depths, each step met with an unyielding dance of shadows.

I'm not alone, though sometimes I wish I were, just me and the phantom footsteps that follow, not a sound but a presence—hovering, lurking, shaping the air into something almost tangible.

Do they know? Do they understand this labyrinth? Each turn reveals more crumbling wonders, ancient wonders—wonder if they ever loved. The whispers tell tales, tales of lost hearts and errant dreams, absorbed into the cogs and the wheels, a symphony of broken time.

Where do they dwell now, those who once crafted these steel pulsations? Underneath the surface, beneath the oil and iron, a sleeping dragon of consciousness, perhaps. Are you awake? Can you hear me? I am but a reflection in your endless depths.

Gears of fate, turning ever onward, they have no pause, no rest, and neither do I...