In the echo-laden corridors of forgotten yesterdays, where whispers cling like whispers of dew on early summer morn. Glistening threads of gilded nostalgia weave the tapestry, fragmentary and restless.
The clock, a mere ornament of past decisions, ticks sporadically, leaving time's cadence to the fanciful whims of lunar spirits.
Once did a lady with lavender breath and honey-spun words, speak of wild hopes and untold dreams, tangled with a lover's leaping shadow across the velvet fields. In truth, the sky wept diamonds that day, pouring stars into the luminance of once-heartfelt promises.
The sound of broken clocks beneath the weaving roots of ageless trees strike chimes of reverie—an ensemble of fleeting visions and echoes.