Dust motes danced
Dust motes danced in the light above the pressure, revealing individual grains within the clay like miniature worlds. One particle broke free and drifted downwards, tracing a path towards a dark crevice—less a fall than an unveiling of something long held. The crumbling slate yielded to touch, its texture leaving faint geometric trails on fingertips; echoes resonated from layers of compressed peat. Accepting this fragility, one felt less certainty about beginnings or endings, as the landscape seemed to shift with each passing moment and quiet resolution settled over the hand pressed into the red earth.