At the junction of temporal shadows, where gears whisper secrets in the frozen air, a voice beckons from beyond the turn. It's a calming cadence, reminiscent of sea winds fracturing against a lighthouse steadfast in the haze's chilling grip.
Here, clocks do not measure time; they weave it, strand by strand, into tapestries of forgotten moments. Every tick is an echo of a story half-told, every pause a rumination on dreams left unsaid.
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