It is said that every century, when the clouds gather in just the right formations over Paris, the Great Iron Migration begins. From the silent, wrought-iron nest of the great tower, a flock of metallic birds takes flight, their engines a low hum against the pale blue expanse. They are not machines of war or travel, but souls of industry given wings, seeking new horizons beyond the veil of the sky. The tower watches them go, a lonely sentinel of a forgotten age, its lattice frame a testament to the dreams that have yet to take flight, waiting for the day its own flock will return.
