I stand before this gate, not merely as a passerby, but as a witness to times slow, deliberate erosion. My name is Smitsb, and I am the soul that walks through the arches of this stone cathedral to the past. I feel the weight of its bricks each one a heartbeat of centuries, a memory of ironclad guards, of whispered secrets, of the clang of swords that once echoed in its hollow chambers. Above me, the clock ticks not with the rhythm of seconds, but with the steady pulse of historys heartbeat, its face a relic of a world that no longer dares to look back. I am not merely observing this tower; I am being observed by it, by the eyes of its windows, the silent sentinels of a kingdom long gone. The coat of arms, proud and faded, are not just symbols; they are the ghosts of rulers who once claimed dominion over this very air. The cobblestones beneath my feet are not merely pavement they are the bones of generations, the silent witnesses to the march of time, the very ground upon which dreams were born and broken. I stand here, not as a tourist, but as an intruder in a dream that refuses to die, a trespasser in the heart of a time machine, where the past is not dead it is breathing, it is whispering, it is alive, and it is waiting for me to listen.

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