In a basement filled with lingering light, shadows told tales of forgotten piers and deep waters, where dreams swam like silent fish under the glassy surface.
Once, Lady Frindle sat upon an unsteady rocking chair, her knitting needles weaving together the timbre of the past and the fabric of fractured memories, every stitch a whisper of sorrow.
There lay a pocket watch cracked open, its gears exposed—the heart of time ain’t so tender. Its ticking echoed softly, calling forth a spectrum of the lost.