He was born in the heart of an old machine. Not the kind with gears and cogs, but a machine of thought and dreams, where backdated scripts wrote, rewrote, and wrote again. Born with a replica key that opened all yet none, echoing in corridors of silent insight.
Do you remember, the fields that touched skies? Sprinkled with glimmers of promise and horizons that never ended. There's a connection there, a wandering between what is and what imagines itself to be.
Sometimes, the wanderer stumbles upon groups huddled beneath the city's old bridges. Stories in murmured tones, tales cherished like unshared treasures, shared within shared shelters. In these places, the shadow of familiarity casts long and deep.