Once upon the spiral stairs of the old clock tower, time whispered secrets not meant for this realm. Beneath its wooden, moth-eaten beams, a traveler sat, wrapped in the embrace of twilight's quilt, recounting tales of a forgotten age. A specter brushed past, leaving echoes in paths untread.
Amelia had often wandered these corridors in dreams. Now awake amidst the shadows, she glimpsed the scrawled names on time's ledger. "Hugo, 1847," the ink shimmered mysteriously, as if plucked from the darkness of an eternal midnight.
There was talk of a mirror that reflected neither image nor truth but a journey— a descent through layers of silenced years. Those who peered too long within its depth found themselves drawn into the narrative, a spectral dance choreographed by time itself.