Mirea and The Road of Spoken Sand

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The sand beneath her feet was light as ground twilight, soft as the whisper of an old song. Mirea paused. Her cat, black and alert as always, moved smoothly beside her, its tail raised, as if already sensing that this place was different. Ahead of them lay a narrow path, barely visible yet unmistakable: a road of sand that resonated. Not like gravel underfoot, but like speech. Every step on it caused words to rise—not aloud, but tentatively, as if searching for an ear that could listen. Mirea knelt down. The sand between her fingers was warm, though the air was still and cool. As soon as she touched it, the grains whispered: "I was a thought no one spoke." Another: "I remember a promise that crumbled in the wind." The cat stopped and tilted its head. Its eyes shone in the silence like little moons. Then she sat down and began to listen. Mirea stood and stepped onto the path. The sand vibrated slightly. It was as if she were walking on a poem that had never been written but often felt. Voices flickered—a child's voice, a broken chant, a prayerful whisper without an answer. With each step, the sand seemed to reveal new memories. Not her own, but those that had been forgotten—by strangers, by dreamers, by those who never got to finish their stories. Once, the sand spoke so clearly it made Mirea shiver: "I was the last sentence of a dying mother." She stopped. The cat gently stroked her ankles. Strange plants grew along the edge of the path—like quill pens, but alive, twitching slightly in the breeze and seeming to respond to every sound. Further ahead, where the sand darkened, stood two stone arches, as if someone had built a door that could only be opened by hearing. Mirea passed through the arches. Beyond: a wide, silent field. No plants. No wind. Only sand—and sound. But here it was different. The words no longer came from below, but from the air. They hung like mist above the ground, floating between the hills. The cat leaped silently ahead and disappeared briefly in a shimmering wave of syllables. Mirea followed, and the sound changed. More personal. Close. "Mirea," said the sand. Not as a question. As a memory. A being stepped out of the silence. It had the shape of a person, but it consisted of pure voice—as if someone had carved a heart from sounds. It bowed to her. "You are the first to listen without asking." "Who are you?" "We are that which was never said—and yet remained." The cat sat down next to the being and meowed softly. There was a tone in its voice that didn't meow, but answered. Then the figure disappeared—not abruptly, but like a final verse. And Mirea knew: This road didn't lead anywhere. It led deeper. When she turned around, the path behind her hadn't disappeared. But the words she now heard were new. And they sounded a little like herself.