“The pendulum swung across æons,” she whispered, her fingers tracing circles on the opaque glass. “I’ve seen the fog-clad tower... it emerges where past collides with tenuous futures.”
Underneath a languid crescent, the cobblestones betrayed spectral echoes, brick by agonized brick. Timeworn and weary, the keepers salute no one at dawn.
The attic. Dust-laden ardor wept from ancient books. There, amidst shadowy shelves, the mark of void-disrupted days – a journal inked with stars gone sickly.
Tomorrow bridges yesterday, as spirits return with hollowing strength. Hungry are souls that walk along tangled ley lines stretching the very fabric of now.
"Curse not the emerald gate," intoned the steely-eyed traveler. "Through its vestiges, reality swathes itself in dreams pungently foreign to our ailing hearts."