Time slipped through the cracks like silken scarves falling from a forgotten dance. I was there, amidst the echoes of a marketplace woven with stories. The year? Unfamiliar, more sensation than chronology.
To blink was to awake in another era: a dining room draped in the twilight dust of the 1920s, the gentle murmur of mother's melodies clinging to shadows. I am an anomaly here, both messenger and spectator, collecting whispers like treasures.
In ancient kitchens, cauldrons bubble with broth richer than moonlit secrets. There I met a sage who spoke of stars not yet born, fingers tracing constellations in the air like invisible ink. "Every century carries your echo," they whispered, "a river you shall navigate."
I wander further, into military tents scented with wet earth and ambitions unfulfilled, inked maps sprawl like chains on tables as discussions spiral into the ether. All for the name of a battle not recorded nor celebrated. Can I forecast tomorrow without being tethered by yesterdays?
The hands of time circle one another endlessly, and I ask: in which part of the loop do I belong? And somewhere from the void comes a reply—a lilting laughter twisted amid particles of existence.
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