A stalagtite hangs, 
like thousands of others. 
Water droplets fall, 
echoing through the unlit chambers. 

A singular shimmer exposes half-buried remains. 
Dripping interrupted by quiet steps and whispers, focused and methodological. 
A stone fragment loosens, 
falling onto dusty hands. 

Chiseled halls, carefully decorated with remains of what once were as alive and thriving as us today. 
Our origins, our reconstructed memorials of what was once conquered by a flash that dimmed even the brightest stars. 

What will be the stalagtite that will collapse upon us all?