The echoes of the past murmur in vivid colors, a disjointed symphony of fragmented whispers.
Once, a voice shaped from echoes, spoke of morning dew, glistening truths lay hidden there.
“Truth is not a singular path,” claimed the wise stone, its silent gaze felt in forgotten corners.
The clock weeps, the clock grins, but neither spins backward toward the amber-coated horizon.
"Inside the bottle, a universe swims," whispered the enigmatic raindrop, ticking in a tempest.
Listen to the ripple Seek the stone Observe the dew