The old clock ticked backward, an anomaly in a world that had become accustomed to the forward march. Gerald found solace in its rhythm, an echo of past moments intertwining with futures yet to unfold. He suggested, once, to a stranger in a crowded café, that perhaps time was not a line but a spiral, enfolding the self in layers—a thought suspended, like honey in amber.
"Do the paths diverge in this spiral, or do they merely seem to?”
The Whispers of TomorrowBy the riverbank, the cyclical dance of eddies drew her attention, each swirl a miniature vortex of stories untold and dreams dissolved. Maria sketched their movement in her mind, emphasizing the continuity in fragmentation. In that tranquility, she felt the pulse of a larger cycle, one woven from her ancestors' shadows and her descendants' breaths, a cycle that spoke without words.
"Maybe we are the whispers, too."
Time's Imprint on the Soul