He whispers through a time-worn riddle, a veil thin as the morning mist settles over the ancient cobblestones.

In twenty-six rotations clockwise, she walks backwards to meet her shadow's echo, tracing script in the air with finger dipped in stardust.

The old clock shopkeeper knows not how many times he has wound the clocks, each tick folding over the next untold story.

At the crossroads of yesterday and tomorrow, lies a friend who speaks only in parables. A silent nod, a glance through a prism of memories.