"The clock struck thirteen," she murmured, the world outside a black and white blur as if trapped in an old film reel. The rain tapped a rhythm, a forgotten melody only she could understand.
Underneath the floorboards, secrets breathe in shadows, like phantoms of yesterday. A diary, yellowed and crumbling, speaks of dreams when dreams were something tangible, not just flickers in sleep.
He found the compass where he'd left it, pointing not north but towards the past. Its needle danced, erratic, as if leading him through a forgotten forest of memories disguised as modernity.