The clock with hands turned backward,
Chasing shadows in a twilight groove.
A single shoe, weathered and cracked,
Once danced upon the stars' whispers.
A moth-eaten book, the ink bleeds tales,
Of unfulfilled wishes grounded deep.
An old key, rusted yet hopeful,
Unlocking doors to dreams long buried.
Alone, yet connected; threads of fate intertwined,
In a fabric woven by ghosts of yesterday.