The sand in the hourglass did not flow downward. It flowed upward, defying gravity, defying reason, defying the one law Arthur Winsor had been taught since childhood: that everything must eventually fall.
He had found the golden hourglass in his grandfather's study, hidden behind a loose panel in the Egyptian antiquities collection. The glass was thick and imperfect, bubbles frozen within like trapped breath. The sand was black—not the pale gold of desert dunes but the color of coal dust, of soot, of something that had burned and left only its shadow. When Arthur turned it, the sand climbed. And...
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