The clocks have a habit of forgetting, like snowflakes on the tongue. Each tick a burst of color, forgotten narratives bleed into the seams, filling the void with melodies of lost dreams. Did you see the whispering shadows? They spoke in riddles, and the wind carried the echoes of a time long abandoned.
Amongst the ticking, there's a door—hidden, ancient. It opens to places untouched by light, where the ground pulses with history untold. As clocks forget, so do we. We forget the tales etched in the rhythm of seconds, and the clocks, they remember. They remember and they whisper.