Within the forlorn whispers of the gypsy night, a carriage ferries shadowed figures through the cobblestone alleyways. Their cloaks are woven from midnight, and their footsteps echo with the shiver of half-century-old secrets. An antiquated leather-bound tome rests upon the lap of one, wreathed with dust of forgotten dreams — dreams where the very essence of time splinters and calls beyond the veil of epochs unremembered and fires asleep beneath the earth.
The iron winds of metallic spears dance relentlessly amidst the spires of what once was a city, now but merely a husk haunted by spectral memories. Clouds heavy with storm crush and crawl, enclosing the remnants of mysterious machinations that now serve as tomes to tantalize the unwary traveler. Scrawled upon neon-etched placards are the chants of prisms — vibrant prophecies of an enduring past in a rapidly dissipating present.
In a hallway as endless and timeless as the sea's call, winds carry murmurs through an hourglass forest. There stand pillars erected from sorrow’s songs, audible against the silence of echoes carved from whispers of twilight-laden voices. Time travels them not through linear trails but washes them over the magnetic drift, from conception to reckoning stone by cosmic stone.