In the house that my grandparents used to live in when I was a child, it used to rain sand.
It was placed a block (and a street) from the sea. I have seen, over the years and years, how the houses in front of the sea were consumed by the sand. Summer houses, lay abandoned for the year, were found partially covered by the dunes each December. It worsened each year, until the houses were left completely abandoned and the walls disappeared under the golden sea. At the end, the street looked like a beach, sometimes interrupted by one or two adrift roofs.
The grandparents’s house rose above those corpses like empty carcasses, and it was further away. I think it was the wind. The wind that blew constantly, that moved the grains of sand centimetre by centimetre, until they reached between the tiles. At night, when the sea sang, the waves and the storm, one could feel how the beams creaked and how the tiles slightly moved.
Hiding in complete darkness, the sand could find the way to slide quietly into the house, handful by handful.
Each morning I would woke up with a little mountain of sand over my blankets. With the years, and years, it was more and more sand that appeared over my bed.
And I used to dream that one day I wouldn’t wake up, that the sand would be so much that it would drown me, by falling silently over my chest, my face and my eyes. I wouldn’t notice until the weight would become unbearable, and it would be too late to breathe. The sand would take me to a deeper and darker dream, leaving where it once was my bed, a dune hiding another empty carcass.