Between the Whispered Lights

Once in a forgotten year, 1823 perhaps, the shadows whispered to me through the mist of a digital dawn.
The clock ticked backwards, it did, right there in the cobblestone kitchen—a voice from the coffee steam, gently echoing the future.
Oh, how the light dances over the lost echoes of a time not yet begun.

Echoes... such a simple word, yet it vibrates through the alleyways of the current,
carving stories into the dust of memories that never really were,
blending ages like an unwritten book tossed into the wind.

Remember that day when the sun went sideways? You, me, and the gypsy cart,
laughing as we chased the shadows of seven ghosts in between the lines of reality—
a train whistled, or perhaps it was a telephone ringing in the Empire of Dreams.

Visions of you, in a time when rainbows were tangible,
woven into the tapestry of an evening that smelled of electric wires and jasmine,
where the past sang to the future like a father to a wayward son.
You in your velvet attire, clinking coins echoing through the alleys of my mind.

The light between these whispered tales flickers like an old film reel,
spooling and rewinding, caught in the mechanical pause of a moment,
bridging whispers with the sound of anachronistic clocks that tick not in time,
but in the pulse of a light we chase and sometimes lose ourselves in.
Hidden Treasures await, beneath the skin of forgotten maps,
where every ink drop speaks of a journey not taken but very much alive.