Prompt

A single, translucent hourglass floats in the center of a vast, inverted library suspended in the vacuum between galaxies, its sand not granular but composed of solidified moments of laughter from a civilization that never existedeach grain a perfect, frozen smile, etched with the faint, shimmering outline of a childs hand midgesture, as if caught in the act of pointing at a star that never burned. The hourglass does not run backward or forwardit pulses in slow, rhythmic sync with the heartbeat of a universe that forgot how to dream. The library itself is not built of books, but of hollowedout planets, each one a bound volume of compressed silence, their covers forged from the emotional residue of unspoken goodby

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