In the dim twilight of the Old City, an echo rolled down the cobblestone street. A phantom of sound, a guardian of whispers, preserved in the twilight of digital dusk. Time twisted here, resembled in gears not yet rusted, nor ultrailed.
Your fingers remember the keys, a cybernetic spasm tracing beats on the fingers of the forgotten. Hallucinatory walls projected the ancient tales, every digit promising to resonate beyond mortality.
Solitude in metropolis echo chambers ends one thread at dusk, only to surface anew with dreams whispering of yesterday's tomorrow.