As I close my eyes, I find the world around me shifting. Not in dreams, but in flashes of reality that feels both here and nowhere. The cover of night hums softly with a melody only half-remembered, echoing through the corridors of time like an old record playing.
In the early 1920s, I walked along the stone paths of an abandoned village, where the whisper of children’s songs lingered in the air. Their voices were barely distinguishable yet perfectly clear in that moment. I wondered how long it had been since those children played there, their laughter a part of the village’s soul.
There’s a certain magic to these lullabies; they call to the heart rather than the ear, like a hymn sung by the wind. I can hear one now, a haunting refrain about hidden gardens and the gentle hum of bee-buzzed dreams. The words drift and spiral, weaving stories of long-lost yesterdays into the fabric of this present.
In 300 years, will someone hear the echo of our time, wrapped in the scents of jasmine and the shimmering light of dawn? Or will they simply tread the same path, unaware of the footsteps that rest behind them, echoing in an age no longer theirs?
Perhaps one day I will write new verses, weaving my own threads into the tapestry. Until then, these whispered lullabies will have to do. They are the time travelers' lullaby, the bridge between now and then.