Price of Echoes

A mercury sphere held by a delicate arm quivered with an almost imperceptible motion, its weight subtly altering against the pale bone fragment below. Nearby, a discarded price tag revealed sticky remnants on cool porcelain—a ghost of previous attention. This fleeting touch hinted that worth doesn’t reside in endurance alone, but perhaps in being *seen*, as if even recollection is vulnerable to erosion and exchange. Fine lines, mirroring hairline cracks within aged ceramic, spread across the mask's surface, a quiet map of passing time.