A caravan of traveling storytellers gathers beneath the shadow of the whale, their cloaks fluttering in the morning breeze. Each storyteller carries a satchel filled with faded journals and timeworn trinkets, their faces eager and nervous. The whale’s eye—an opal set in brass—blinks slowly, as if waking from dreams of distant lands.
The air hums with anticipation. One storyteller, brave and young, presses a palm against a copper panel. "Do you think we’ll find new stories, or just trade away our own?" Another, older and wise, replies with a gentle smile. "Every journey changes us. What we give, we gain in ways we cannot see."
Each storyteller places a handful of minutes—coins stamped with sandglass emblems—onto the table. In exchange, memories materialize: visions of lost cities, songs of distant families, laughter echoing in forgotten halls. The whale’s engines pulse with the energy of their traded time.
The storytellers descend, carrying their fresh memories. A child asks, "What does the whale eat?" A storyteller kneels, offering a memory of their first sunrise. "It feeds on what we’re willing to let go—minutes, moments, and the stories they hold." The villagers trade their own minutes for tales of hope and longing.
One storyteller gazes at the sky, feeling the weight of traded memories. "Do you ever wonder if the whale remembers us, or the stories we give?" Another answers, "Perhaps it carries them forever, deep in its clockwork heart." The fire crackles, and the night stretches on.
The whale’s engines roar to life, propelling it forward. The storytellers wave farewell to the villagers, their faces alight with new tales and hope. As the whale glides away, the desert shimmers—alive with the promise of more minutes, more memories, and stories yet to be traded.
