Once upon a time, in a distant land where the wind danced with the clouds and the sun painted the sky with orange hues every evening, there was a small village called Sandaleen. It was a peaceful place, home to humble, hardworking people who grew giant potatoes and raised birds with shimmering feathers. Everyone knew each other and greeted one another with a smile.
But just north of the village, among dunes of sand so fine it resembled flour, stood something no one dared mention aloud: a monumental arch, rising into the sky, unsupported, as if defying the laws of nature. It was made of pale stone, almost like compacted sand, and the villagers called it The Infinite Arch.
This arch didn’t resemble ordinary buildings, nor did it have the charm of a bridge connecting two shores. Its top had two twin points stretching toward the heavens, and its delicate curve seemed so fragile that many believed a strong gust of wind would shatter it into a thousand pieces. Yet there it stood, unwavering against storms and quakes.
The people of Sandaleen didn’t take pride in this strange marvel. It made them uneasy. Some whispered that a mischievous wizard had conjured it to disturb their peace. Others said it was a gateway to other worlds. Most simply wished it didn’t exist, fearing its mystery and apparent fragility.
In the village lived a boy named Arlen. He was about nine years old, with large, curious eyes and messy dark hair that tumbled over his forehead. Arlen was a dreamer, with an imagination as vast as the desert. Unlike the other villagers, he was fascinated by the Infinite Arch. Whenever his mother sent him to gather eggs or he accompanied his father to tend the goats, he would gaze at the Arch from afar, wide-eyed with wonder.
One evening, as the sun began to set behind the dunes, Arlen made up his mind. Without telling his parents, he set out toward the Infinite Arch. He wanted to see it up close, to touch it, and to unravel its secrets.
He walked and walked, leaving behind the thatched roofs of Sandaleen. The wind whispered in his ears, encouraging him onward. The soft crunch of sand beneath his sandals marked each step, and with every stride, the Arch grew larger and grander before his eyes. It was awe-inspiring—a silent giant rising from the horizon. It seemed to float, unsupported, though closer inspection revealed subtle grounding in the hard-packed sand.
When Arlen reached the Arch, he found it was made of a peculiar stone. It wasn’t ordinary rock, nor was it wood. It felt like compressed sand, hardened by some mysterious process. Its surface was smooth, almost silky, and though it seemed solid, it gave the impression of being as delicate as an insect’s wing.
“How can something so fragile hold itself up?” Arlen wondered aloud.
The Arch seemed to shimmer faintly in the golden light of the setting sun, reflecting soft colors like a whisper of light.
As he sat beside the Arch, a figure emerged from the dunes: an old woman wrapped in a long, dusty cloak, her silver hair fluttering in the breeze.
“Hello, young one,” she greeted him softly. “Do you like the Arch?”
Arlen, startled, thought he was alone. He nodded shyly.
“It’s so strange and beautiful. Who built it? Why is it here?”
The woman’s face, etched with deep wrinkles, softened into a smile. Her eyes sparkled with a mysterious energy.
“No one knows who built it or when,” she said. “Some say it’s been here since the beginning of time. Its twin peaks and delicate form are a mystery. Many believe it’s a mistake, something that shouldn’t exist. They fear it because they don’t understand it. They think it’s weak, that it will collapse and crush us one day. But look at it… it’s still here, unshaken.”
Arlen brushed his hair from his forehead and thought deeply. “And you? What do you think?”
The woman gazed at the Arch as if looking at an old friend.
“I believe the Arch teaches us that not everything fragile is weak, and not everything we don’t understand should be destroyed or ignored. To me, it’s a kind of bridge—between what we know and what we have yet to discover. It reminds us to be patient, curious, and to cherish what we have, even when we don’t understand its purpose.”
The woman’s words made Arlen’s heart tingle. He realized the Arch wasn’t just a strange structure. It was a symbol of the unknown, a reflection of his own curious spirit. Like the Arch, he too was small and sometimes unsure, but that didn’t make him weak, nor did it mean he couldn’t hold up his dreams.
As the night enveloped the desert, Arlen ran back to the village, his face aglow with excitement. He shared his experience with his parents, who listened in silence. His father frowned, his mother embraced him tightly, and neither knew quite what to say.
Over time, Arlen’s enthusiasm began to spread. The villagers, once wary of the Arch, grew curious. Children approached it timidly, marveling at its delicate beauty, and even some elders came to see it under the moonlight.
The Arch, steadfast and silent, became part of the village’s identity—not an enemy, but a gentle reminder of the beauty of mystery. Though no one ever learned its true origin, it inspired stories and legends, enriching Sandaleen’s culture.
As Arlen grew into a young man, he became an explorer, traveling far and wide in search of hidden wonders. But he always returned to Sandaleen, where he would sit beneath the Infinite Arch and remember the day it changed his life.
Years later, as an old man with silver hair, Arlen still visited the Arch. He would sit beside it, smile at its twin peaks rising against the sky, and remember the lessons it taught him: that some things exist without explanation, and that’s okay. What seems fragile isn’t always weak, and what appears meaningless can inspire us to seek meaning.
And so, the Infinite Arch stood, silent and unchanging, a teacher of quiet strength and endless wonder.