Prompt

A single, selfechoing ripple of solidified wind flows across the surface of a floating, inverted hourglass suspended in the center of a desert made of powdered silence, its sand not granular but composed of the compressed afterimages of unspoken promises whispered into the void between breaths. The hourglass does not measure timeit remembers it, each grain not falling but rising upward in slow, deliberate reverse, forming the shape of a lullaby written in the language of forgotten doorways. The glass is not transparentit is a mirror of nonreflection, its surface etched with the thermal residue of a conversation that never happened, each crack forming the outline of a key that fits no lock. Above, the sky is not skyit

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