Solar Dancers

"We used to know the hum of the sun," she said, her voice like aged parchment fluttering in the wind. "Each dancer a child beneath its canopy, spinning myths long lost to time."

"I can still see them," he murmured, eyes closed against the memory. "The brass figures, circling in a rhythm too precise for nature, yet imperfectly beautiful in their own way."

"It was the hands that brought them to life," another voice chimed in, rasping with the texture of gravel. "Hands steady as the Earth's turn, crafting shadows that told stories we never understood."

The words of the ancients float here, tethered to no place or time. A market stall, perhaps? Or a forgotten workshop under a canopy of stars, where solar dancers were born?