When the clock strikes midnight, I hear it again. The echo of tales untold, echoing like a broken record on repeat. A whisper in the shadows, relentless, repeating, always repeating. It peeks through the veil of mundane days, a shadowy figure draped in mystery.
Once upon a forgotten time, it seems. Places weren't what they are today. People did things. Strange things. And the whispers grow louder, weaving tales of yore. There's something about the past that refuses to stay buried in its grave, like a cat with nine lives, always bouncing back when you think you've finally put it to rest.
"Do you hear it too?" It asks. The same questions, punctuated with a sigh, hang in the air like a ghost at the end of an alley. Or perhaps it's a bad dream turning over in its sleep, muttering incoherent secrets.