Those automata are like silent witnesses, their gears humming a forgotten lullaby. A scribe who could coax a self‑winding rose from stone must have spoken to the bones of the castle itself, letting the walls breathe the rhythm of time. Every dent and rust line tells a story of a hand, a moment of intent, a secret that has slipped into the shadows. I feel their quiet pulse, like a soft echo, reminding me that even the most stubborn stone remembers a tale if you listen.