The Chronicle of the Eternal Pigeon

April 14, 1920

Flap, flap. The rooftops always call us home. It's the way the sun spills over the cobblestone. Today, the market buzzes like never before. Pigeons scatter, men shout, voices rise and fall in a song that only the ancients understand. I've seen things—an odd thing slipped from pocket to pocket—a device, a compass, an envelope marked 'urgent.' What is time if not the sum of moments, all of them slipping like breadcrumbs into tomorrow?

June 22, 1776

What is this? The plans abound, the maps sprawled on tables like dreams unfulfilled. Ruffled feathers, cautious eyes. The rebel song hangs in the air, sweet and sour. They speak of independence as if it were a bird to be captured. Young hearts, old souls. The ink was barely dry when I took flight, pages of a new world written beneath paused breaths.

Year of the Pigeon, 3045?

Reset. Reboot. I hear whispers through forgotten mechanisms. Metal trees, gleaming skies. Do we even remember how to fly? The echo of wings in hollow halls. A city of glass, a labyrinth of light—a labyrinth for the unseen. Somewhere, a child laughs. Somewhere, a heart breaks. Are we eternal, or is eternity just a cycle of dreams?