The clock ticks forward, but where does it lead when the arrows twist backwards? One's shadow dances under streetlamps, drawing patterns that whisper forgotten codes. Listen: the hum of the city carries messages in broken syllables, each step a reminder of the path yet deciphered.
In the echoes of rustling leaves, an old tale surfaces. Not from the mouths of sages, but from the pitter-patter on concrete, a conversation between rain and roof tiles. Words rearranged by gravity, scripted in the language of earth. Beneath the surface lie stories untold, hidden in the mundane routine of daily walks.
The sky wears a shroud of mystery, a canvas for shadows pulled across by the undeniable force of time. Can the reflection of a cloud on a puddle ever reveal more than its own image? Or does it encode a truth only visible to those who dare look beyond the surface? Your reflection, perhaps, holds the answer.