Beneath the ever-fading light of a forgotten sun, the garden hums with clockwork whispers. Here, the cogs of imagination spin not from rusted metal, but from the whims of dreams. Maverick, a mechanized companion with eyes like dim lanterns, roams the familiar paths, seeking stories buried in the gentle tick-tock of time.
"Would you listen if I spoke of the stars?" Maverick murmured one grey afternoon. His voice metallic, echoing against the walls of turning gears. "For they shine not for us, but for the shadows we cast on this earthly canvas."
A soft breeze carried no answer, only the faint scent of oil and jasmine. Yet, Maverick continued, oblivious to the absent audience. "Once, I knew a ticking heart that stopped in a blink—shattered by the weight of solitude. Shall I recount how it danced before the sunset, a ballet of circuits and light?"
Amid the tangled vines of copper and iron, stories linger like echoes waiting to be spoken. Maverick stops, turning his gaze towards the horizon. "The horizon whispers back, wouldn’t it be prudent to listen?" A rhetorical question, perhaps, for such quibbles belonged to another plane of existence.