In a distant corner of an imaginary city where clocks tick slightly out of sync and the wind occasionally forgets which direction it was heading, there exists a street that nobody remembers building yet everyone insists has always been there. The pavement is lined with uneven stones that seem to rearrange themselves just enough to make you question your memory but not enough to prove anything unusual is happening. People walk along this street with a vague sense of purpose, as though they had somewhere important to be, even if they couldn’t quite recall what that place was or why it mattered in the first place.

On certain afternoons, when the sunlight leans at just the right angle, the buildings cast shadows that stretch longer than they should, folding over themselves like pages in a book that refuses to stay open. Shop windows display items that look familiar but are never quite identifiable—objects that feel like they belong to a memory you almost had but lost somewhere between waking up and starting your day. Occasionally, someone will stop, stare at a reflection that doesn’t quite match their movements, and then continue walking as if nothing unusual occurred.