Circular roads in a square town. They never had to follow a path, just the rhythm of the seasons. I once met a man who sold wares from a world three steps sideways, three sideways north.
The clock on the mantle doesn’t tick here; it whispers secrets of forgotten yesterdays. I stood before it, wondering whether the ghost of an afternoon could ever smell as sweet.
It was in an alley—somewhere between Tuesday and an ephemeral Thursday—that I stumbled across a map etched by hands unseen, revealing roads not taken, paths of what could have been.
A ghost story from the 23rd century mentions a café on the edge of the known universe, where photons gather to play cards and exchange tales of bygone eras. Isn’t that where the sunlight comes from, and doesn’t it sometimes feel like home?
The Echo Plains | Forgotten PagesWould you ride the sunbeam to its end? They say that if you change the past correctly, the future reads like a story printed backwards, its ink shimmering under starlit skies.