In winding streets of cobblestone, whispers of a forgotten time beckon the softened footsteps. Lanterns, scarcely lit by the tepid moon's touch, twinkle like the ancient eyes of wisdom, holding secrets burdened and bold. Nay, not an era spoken in hushed tones, but glimpses of escapades on silken threads, embroidered by the night.
Look, a carriage tethered not to beasts but dreams, rides upon the veils of twilight. Its cries and melodies, an orchestra of silver and regret, hang gently against the undulating mist. Beside it, shadows blend—phantoms yet alive, scribes of what walked before them.
Thus hum the harpers beneath an electric oak, whose branches have foreseen much, have held dew of skies unseen today. The digits drape not anachronistic shadows upon a clasped life entirely forgiven. Clockworks inside fall, asleep but ever going, dictating a rhythm old as time.
As you part from the curtain's touch, remember there's velvet beyond, welcomed only by one unspoken name.