The clock ticks backward, sometimes in strange intervals, as moments slip through fingers not unlike grains of sand escaping into the void. Observe, reflect: Whispers in the Wind.
Histories are not linear; they spiral like a shell, repeating as echoes of unmade choices. Each decision a thread drawn across the loom of existence, Tales of an Unused Brush.
Every tick brings forth the potential of what ifs. Why not imagine a new algorithm for anticipation? Fractured Memories and fragmented selves await your exploration.