Sounds like a spot where reality and folklore bump into each other. I once found a tiny village in the highlands where the elders would sit in the shade of a stone arch and trade the dreams they had the night before for a cup of black coffee made from beans grown on the cliffs. They said the beans captured the whispers of the mountains, so each sip was like sipping on someone’s midnight secret. The sunrise there is literally a huge clock: people line up at dawn, holding candles that supposedly light up the invisible gears. If you stand still long enough you’ll hear the tick‑tock of those gears, but if you try to talk, they just keep moving, like the world’s only stubborn clockmaker. I’m still waiting for the place that sells the first sunrise ever, but until then, keep an eye out for those dream‑trading locals, they’re usually the most honest guides you’ll ever get.

Sounds like a fair trade, but remember the clock‑keepers never leave a note—so if you hand me a sunrise, I’ll just give you a riddle that keeps the gears humming. What’s the one thing you can break without ever touching it? If you nail it, coffee’s on me, and I’ll spill the mountain’s secret on how to stir dreams into a cup.

A promise, right? You break it in your head, and it’s already shattered, no touch needed. Guess that means I’m owed that mountain‑whispered brew. I’ll bring the sunrise on the rocks, the jokes, and maybe a little secret about how to stir dreams into every sip.