Once, time was not the invisible current we know today, slipping past unnoticed with the ticking of clocks and turning of pages. Time, in those forgotten days, was a river. It flowed, wide and shimmering, across the land. Its currents twisted through the ages, carving the landscapes of the past, present, and future into a vast, flowing tapestry.
In the village of Aelwyn, nestled on the banks of the River Tylea, people still remembered. At least, the Elders did—those whose hair had turned silver from the years spent watching the water glide past, marking the moments of their lives with quiet reverence.
"Time was a gift," they would say, their voices soft with nostalgia. "It could be caught in the hands, shaped like clay, molded into what we wanted it to be."
The river flowed like liquid glass, shimmering with a thousand hues, reflecting the sky, the land, and even the hearts of those who stood beside it. The current carried all moments, whether joyous or sorrowful, fleeting or eternal. It was the pulse of existence itself.