"When the clock struck thirteen," she whispered, her voice barely a trail of mist in the midnight air. Synthetic meters hummed softly behind her, a chorus of mechanical harmony, lost in the smell of rain-drenched earth.
The city, with its spires looming like verses in an unwritten manuscript, stirred around them. Each shadow, each flickering neon sign, was a continuation of a story half-stopped, its plot merged with digital echo. Voices merged, fragmented, synthesized till they spoke of both hope and something unnamed.
A beacon flickered in desolation's embrace. "We carry the echoes," he said, surveying the skyline laden with static whispers. His words were almost algorithmic, precise yet softened by a hue of bygone understanding.Circuit Dreams
They walked in unison, their footsteps mimicking a forgotten symphony. The meters whispered to him unseen secrets, spoken in a dialect known only to time's guardians. Lurking in the corners of pixelated time, the past dragged its hollowed smile across augmented horizons. "Time is a synthetic paradox," she replied, and both felt the truth vibrate in assonance with the universe's rhythm.