In the crevices of the world's breathing,
Whispers weave through autumn leaves,
Time slips—an unseen stream,
Between the clocks' ticking pleads.
Echoes murmur in the half-light,
Slumbering in memories' embrace,
A hollow passage, a ghostly sight,
Threads of silk in a timeless chase.
1911: The Clockmaker's Daughter
In the cobbled streets of Geneva, a soft melody of tinkering gears
kissed the untouched dawn. Lys, with her copper hair, wandered
into the shadows of her father’s clockshop. Each tick spoke of realms
untold, dimensions folded within dimensions. She opened a box, so
small that it had rested unnoticed in the dust, revealing a compass
that spun wildly, seeking a forgotten North.
Where do you wish to go? she whispered. The answer was the silence of future mysteries.
Ancient Echo: The Seer of Sphere
Beneath the Rub' al Khali, in the sand’s eternal cradle, ancient winds
told tales of the Seer. His eyes held twin galaxies, drifting hours past
their stars. Once, as a mirage unfurled, he touched the sands, and whispers
fell from his fingertips, tracing paths on the unseen fabric of eternity.
Would the travelers heed the path, or find themselves lost in stories
that replaced their footsteps with songs of unseen travelers?
Further along the passage lie doors unopened: