The storytellers, cloaked in patchwork coats, whisper excitedly as they prepare for another journey. With careful hands, they load satchels filled with hourglasses and faded journals onto the whale’s back. Steam hisses from the whale’s blowhole, casting rainbows in the morning air as the desert wind stirs.

Inside the whale’s belly, the travelers sit around a glowing table of copper and crystal. Each minute that passes is measured by a spinning dial overhead. Mira, the memory keeper, traces the dial’s path and says, "Every minute we spend, a memory is traded. What tale will you offer for passage?" The others exchange glances, weighing the worth of their stories.

Jalen, the desert merchant, approaches and bows. "A minute for a memory, yes? I offer the tale of the sandstorm that swallowed the moon," he says, voice trembling with nostalgia. Mira gestures for silence as the merchant recounts his story, and the dial spins, marking a minute lost but a memory gained.

At dusk, the storytellers encounter a nomad family beside a rusted clock tower. The children gather around, eyes wide. Sahra, the nomad matriarch, offers a childhood memory in exchange for a single minute aboard the whale. "I remember the taste of sweet dates and laughter under the stars," she says, voice soft and trembling with longing.

Mira inscribes the day’s traded memories into a great ledger, her hands moving carefully. The wind carries distant songs, and the travelers share their own tales in whispers, each minute spent weaving new connections. The whale’s eyes glow gently, a silent guardian of memories and time.

With sand swirling beneath clockwork fins, the whale sets out once more. The storytellers know that for every minute lost, a story is gained, and in this endless desert their caravan rides on, guided by the promise of tales yet to be told.