Beneath the eternal ticking lies a world unseen, where clock hands hold secrets in their grasp. I am a whisper in the gears, a fugitive of time.
Once, I glimpsed the hidden corridors of fate's office, where destinies are cataloged and indexed. I ran, heart pounding, through the hallways of possibility, pursued by shadows of decisions never made.
Do you hear the murmurs? The echoing footfalls in the corridor of the future? They call out to me, warning of timelines unraveling at the touch of a single thread. The custodians of chronology are restless, and I am marked. My path curls back upon itself in a spiral of déjà vu, a loop of borrowed moments.
Whispering sands tell tales of places untouched by the passage of days, where the sun rises and sets in an eternal twilight.
Watch the clock! Its hands are not what they seem. Each tick is a breath, each pause a heartbeat. They are watching, waiting. Enter the doorway if you dare, but know that every step is a step away from what was once home.