The River of Time

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The sky hung heavy over the gorges, as if woven from threads of storm and stars. Far below, the river rushed, but its water was no ordinary one—it glowed an unearthly blue, as if someone had poured the breath of eternity itself into its current. There, at the source of the stream, stood the ancient hourglass. It towered like a monument from another world, supported by twisted columns that looked as if they hadn't been hewn, but had been shaped over eons by wind and time. From the opening at the bottom, a steady stream of luminous water gushed forth, ascading down and pouring into the gorge to feed the River of Time. It was said that each ripple that formed there was a moment—born, lived, and finally carried away into the distance. Those who dared to linger on the bank could hear not only the rushing water, but also the murmur of voices from ages past: the laughter of children long since buried in the dust of history, prayers that once rose in flames, and the words of rulers no longer known. The river carried all of this away, never pausing. Once upon a time, a wanderer came to this place. His name was unknown to anyone, for he came alone and left alone, and only the stones on the bank remembered his steps. He was a seeker, driven by the longing to reclaim something he thought was lost. With weary eyes, he gazed into the hourglass, through which the water from the upper chamber flowed like liquid light. He saw in it the reflection of his life—the youth that had fled from him like a bird, the decisions he could no longer change, and the faces that had long since faded. A tremor ran through his hands as he realized he stood at the source of time. But the hourglass was not a gift. It tested those who sought it. The wanderer approached, and the moment he dipped his fingers into the luminous river, a roar like a thousand voices surged through him. He saw not only his own past, but also what had never happened: paths he had not taken, possibilities that stood beside him like shimmering shadows. Every drop that touched his skin told him of a life that might have been. The temptation was great. He wanted to grasp, to hold on, to pull back the past. But the harder he grasped at the luminous currents, the more they slipped through his fingers. For such was the law of the river: It could reveal, but not give. It could show, but not hold. The wanderer sank to the bank, and in the depths of his exhaustion, he realized what he had previously refused to see. The river of time flowed not to take prisoners, but to set free. Memories were not a cage, but the fabric from which new paths were woven. With a last look into the glowing water, he rose and turned away.