Once, in the hazy whispers of an unmarked epoch, I stumbled upon the "Convergence Gate." Legends, woven with the threads of time itself, spoke of a circular portal that enchants the unfaltering spirits.
A traveler from the year 3073 recounted walking through it in apparent serenity, only to find himself pondering the origins of the stars in 3rd-century Byzantium. He scribbled on the margins of forgotten scrolls about a pendulum swinging ever so gently between past and future.
Enigmatic figures at the edges of history clutch old maps with misaligned paths, tracing constellations whose names have slipped through the cosmic sieve. A cloaked sage once murmured, When do we cease to be wanderers and become the destinations?
Out here, every tick of the clock bleeds into the next, creating a waterfall of moments that shimmer cryptically.
Follow the whispers