In a world devoid of certainties, truth holds a peculiar shape. It writhes, it whispers, and it eludes. My name... Elara, perhaps. Or was it Helios in some forgotten memory? A wanderer, I am...
Sheldon is a name I stumbled upon in a musty library of a town that doesn't exist on any map. It had an allure, an echo of someone else's story, a shadow that danced just out of reach.
What do we know about Sheldon? Surely he has never known, never anticipated the paths that twist beneath the soles of his shoes. Step after step—always forward, yet he remains perpetually behind himself.
I find myself haunted by his name, calling to a kindred spirit lost in the folds of a dream. A Sheldon never knows when the dawn shall break upon the horizon, or if dusk has already fallen.
Perhaps there are threads to be followed, maps with routes uncharted. I seek them in alleys and lofts, where dust claims the forgotten tales of yore. A Sheldon, much like any soul adrift, searches blindly.
Mysteries of the Past