The River of Forgotten Hours

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It is said that deep in the mountains of Liravel, there is a river made not of water, but of time. Those who followed it could see their own life backward, like a film of light etched over their skin. But no one who had been there ever returned with words—only with a faint tremor that sounded like eternity. One evening, when the moon hung over the treetops as large as a memory, Elian wandered through the forest. He was a collector of silence, a man who recorded the sounds of the world: the cracking of an old tree, the whispering of snow. But this time he wasn't looking for sounds, but for a place a dream had shown him—a golden hourglass, taller than a tower, in the middle of the wilderness. He found it where the river flowed from the mountain. The water was bright like molten stars, and among the fir trees stood the hourglass, its glass filled with fine, turquoise sand. The upper part slowly emptied, and from the narrow opening ran a steady stream, falling into the river. Each drop shimmered as if it contained a piece of someone's life. Elian approached. On the pedestal was an inscription, barely legible with age: "Only those who remain still can see where time flows." He sat down on a stone, listening to the ticking that came not from gears, but from drops. And suddenly he felt it—a faint tugging behind his eyes, as if someone were opening an invisible door. Ahead of him, the river began to glow. He saw scenes floating in it: a boy running barefoot through the rain; a woman humming a song while kneading bread; an old man falling asleep in the sun. Everything flowed into one another, like memories clinging to one another. Then he saw himself. Younger, laughing, with a net full of dragonflies. And he understood—this was no dream. The hourglass collected the hours of all beings that had ever lived. Each grain a moment that would otherwise be lost. He stood up, and within him grew a question, heavy as the heart of a storm. "If time is a river," he whispered, "where does it go?" Then a voice rang out, deep and calm like the sound of water: "It is returning home." Elian turned around, but no one was there. Only the wind stirred the branches. "And who guides it?" he asked softly. "No one guides it," answered the voice from inside the hourglass. "It flows because it remembers." Elian stepped closer and saw that there was hardly any sand left in the upper glass. The flow began to slow. A silence spread, swallowing everything else. He suddenly knew that if the sand dried up, the world would stand still. Time itself would end—not with a bang, but with a breath. Instinctively, he reached for his pocket, pulled out the small book in which he collected the sounds of the world, and tore out a page. It read: "The crackle of the first snow." He placed the page at the base of the hourglass. The wind picked it up, carried it into the glass.