Once, on an infinite carousel turning slowly under a blistering sky, Harry began to notice the memories whispering of lives never lived. He traced the patterns of dust dances, and then shifted his gaze toward the horizon. But, was there even a horizon?

Time unraveling itself like a tired loom's thread—frayed and undone.

A memory murmured amidst the echoes, "Did someone call? Or was that just the wind careening through the gaps?" Disjointed visions of crossroads fluttered, each offering paths of restlessness and quietude.

A door swung open, hauntingly enigmatic. Harry walked through, yet found himself standing at the beginning once again, the carousel creaking underneath time's weight. But the dust was unchanged, their dance eternal.

That was the story, wasn't it? Told and retold in the falling silence. There was a key, perhaps—a gleaming sliver dropped amidst the endless stages—but where? The answer dissipated like the mist on dawn's breath.

Yet again, Harry remembered that someday, somewhere, there might be a different kind of looping—one that found an end.