An echo bounced from the walls of another room, whispered tales of forgotten futures where silver
clocks tick backward, unraveling moments in ribbons of stardust.
Once, a specter of a child, barefoot on the cobbled streets of 1763, paused to gather the dew-drops
of sunrise reflected in her ephemeral self.
The scent of musk and distant melodies from a gramophone linger in the air, conjuring a smoky
lounge of 1930s Paris where poets and dreams mingled over absinthe.