The faint sound of shoes scraping against old linoleum, in shops long closed. A forgotten path, a large golden key unlocking the frost-rimed gates, but — the lock dissolves. Memories float like dandelion seeds, borne on invisible currents, carried by winds that don't blow anymore.

I was a boy on a bicycle, racing past aisles of vibrantly painted candies, accompanied by the humming of an unseen drone. Later I saw them—dozens, their wings catching the light, fractals of memory breaking against a blue canvas. Fractals and echoes, where do they lead? They guide you in circles, whispering sweet nothings in the chorus of trees.

Somewhere, an old man's voice sighs, "They'll never understand, not in a world ruled by timelines and schedules," Like a broken record set off in its own universe, looping endlessly. A calm lake holds an antiquated landscape, resonating with echoes of laughter dissolving into mist, a gentle reminder of what once was and never can be again.