Soft echoes of voices not meant to be heard, drifting like autumn leaves.
There's a clock ticking in the mind of the wool-gatherer, a metronome for forgotten sonnets.
Ink stains on dreams of a merchant from a bygone century, lost in the folds of fabric.
In a corner of a shadowed path, the whisper says, "The map we wrote on sand."
"When the stars align, my dear, one mustn't hesitate to dance with the moon!" she said, her voice laced with the velvet of an old silversmith's tale.
The knight in modern attire glanced at his watch. "Time is a cage, yet I prefer the open skies," he murmured, eyes bright with the glimmer of forgotten magic.
Voice in the Shadows: "Ever heard of the tales retold by shadows at noon?"
"The train leaves at dawn, yet the sea always whispers of storms," replied the old gentleman, tipping his hat to the invisible traveler beside him.