The desert landscape of my mind was an endless, sun-baked expanse of textured sand, a tapestry woven from memory and dust. It was in this dry ocean that I found the first piece of the ancient puzzle. It was not organic, though it resembled a sea urchin or a bizarre botanical bloom. Instead, it was a manifestation of petrified time itself, a fusion of fossilised gears and crystallised synapses.
It radiated a dry, static energy, and its spikes cast a shadow that did not just move with the sky; it writhed.I picked up the device, my gloved hand feeling its strange, hollow weight. It seemed to whisper in a frequency just below human hearing, humming with the stolen warmth of aeons.
It was then I realised the sun above me was not a star at all, but the burning centre of this very artefact, viewed from an infinite distance. I was standing on its surface, and it was actively consuming the cosmos.
The ground beneath me began to shift, responding to the object’s silent pull. The textured, speckled sand resolved not as sand, but as the intricate surface of an immense, skeletal hand, upon whose palm I stood. This hand was not bone, but bleached, mineralised coral, a fragment of an ancient, cosmic reef that had died when time first froze.
The spines of the artefact in my hand were a map of my own spine, a roadmap to my anxieties and joys, and the small, dark centre was the mouth of the thing, looking inward and outward simultaneously as it swallowed the light.I did not know if I was the giant on the hand, the hand itself, or the spine-creature I held, but I was certain I was witnessing the end of days, drifting through the textured nothingness.
