March 14, 1923 — The train rattled through the countryside like an old story passing by the land it once belonged to. Anne peered out at the passing shadows, wondering if they'd ever become something more than whispers between the trees. Sometimes, taking a route just off the main path can lead to places no guidebook ever mentions. Places with untold possibilities—or forgotten legacies.
Out beyond the next crossing lay a village unnoticed by the weary eyes of pamphlets and tourist maps—a place with stories echoing beneath the cobblestones. Her journal was aglow with mystical possibilities, each blank space ready for impressions carved in visiting clouds.
Return to the myth of nights forgotten.October 18, 1847 — Among the whirring and ticking of contraptions endlessly poised to muse, Lydia found herself in the tender grip of invention. Papers scattered like leaves caught in autumn chill, each half-idea resembling a shadow of what it could hardly become. "Does the machine wish to dream?" she pondered aloud, though no one remained in her dim workshop to witness the pair's whispered vow.
Outside the brittle walls, streets were cloaked in the familiar scent of rain-soaked tiles—a prime muse for stories caught mid-breath between what was and what could be.
To linger is to become a shadow yourself.