Incense curls around the memories like stories forgotten in the attic. The clock on the wall whispers secrets of ages when this skin was flesh beneath the stars—and how, in a moment of cosmic alignment, the song of prophesied rains was heard, yet never heeded.
The river twists through ancient groves, where the echoes of nymphs' laughter can still be felt in the ripples. Time here is cyclical, a dance of light refusing to bow to linear constraints. An old man once said, as he carved tales into tree trunks, that each ring spoke volumes of stories untold.
Jet engines roar in a distant memory—a future abruptly altered, a past unrealized. They cross paths above the sprawling neon city, where a young girl still clutches her paper plane dreaming it can take her home. Her voyage stretches from this light-cluttered reality into a time where cities breathe without machines.