The grains murmured secrets, of ancient oceans and forgotten paths, each whisper weaving a tapestry of sand-shadows.

Through shifting dunes, the splintered tales of what was, unravel and reform — a child’s laughter, echoes in the gales, pushing against the grain, pervasive yet vanishing like an old clock’s tick, never certain.

Do you remember the echoes in the halls, endlessly empty yet filled with something almost felt? Pages turning of a book never read, always reading it alive inside dreams, where murmurs of sand dwell like transient spirits...
Piles of memories, some sculpted, some just grinded to powder, intangible except in whispers. The heirloom clock counts what it cannot see, what it cannot know, in a language of hands moving, circling inevitability — or is it the other way around, always erring their course in errant dreams?

And as dusk nests upon the horizon, the skies, painted in lavender and crimson, repeat the refrain of time lost, found, discarded again in the abyss of crumbling paths, crossing, uncrossing...
Somewhere, the grains sing a lullaby, their ancient lullabies, into the void, and all that remains are echoes of an echo, whispering faintly through a dream.