Salira and the Tower of Hourglasses

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The wind carried sand like a soft whisper across the plain as Salira and her dog reached the tower. No stone, no wood—only glass, countless hourglasses, spiraling into one another, as if someone had stacked time itself into a staircase. In each glass rested a face, some stern, some smiling, some flickering like memories about to fade. The dog raised its head, sniffed, and growled softly. Salira placed her hand on its neck, feeling the warmth grounding her. "No rush," she murmured, as if one wrong word could change the hours. The sound of the wind turned into a ticking. At first distant, then everywhere, finally in her chest, where it intertwined with her heartbeat. She set foot on the first bridge of caked sand. Immediately, a face flickered into view: an old teacher. "Fifth period demands accountability," it breathed. "What accountability?" Salira asked. But the hour just smiled and passed. The dog tested each bridge with a cautious paw. Above them hung a golden hourglass, in it the face of a man Salira didn't know and yet thought she remembered—rain, a door almost closing, a laugh. "The seventh hour," said the face, "is made of an omission." "Time is held captive here," Salira whispered. "Not past, not coming. Only stopped." Her dog pressed closer to her, as if to argue. In the center of the tower, a hall of glass ribs opened. There hung the largest hourglass: no faces, only reflections. Many Saliras—the one who left, the one who stayed. "The zero hour," she blurted out. Around her, the other hours gathered like silent witnesses. "Who holds you?" she asked. Voices answered: "The hand that doesn't turn. The fear of what comes after." The dog barked, deeply, in counterweight.Next to the clocks stood rotating mechanisms with dusty handles. Salira brushed away the dust. "If I turn one, what happens?" - "What must happen." Her gaze fell on the seventh hour, which consisted of neglect. She grasped the stirrups, felt the cold. Her dog stood by her side, breathing steady as a counter. She turned. The sand rose, fell, and at zero hour, images appeared: the door that remained open; the summer rain; a laugh that never faded. All around, faces sighed, some whispered "Thank you." Salira turned other hours as well: the third, an unsaid farewell; the fifth, full of hard lessons; the twelfth, midday full of shadows. With each turn, the light took on a movement, as if it finally had permission to wander. Only the zero hour remained silent. "And you?" asked Salira. No answer. But a fine line was drawn on her skin, cool and bright – a scratch of glass that didn't hurt, but sang. "A memory to take with you," she murmured. Her dog nudged her hand, checked the mark, and calmed down.