Echoes in the Stone

I keep a small, smooth river stone on my desk, worn down by years of being turned over in my palm. It is heavy with the weight of places I have never been, yet it feels like a familiar anchor. There is a quiet language in stone—a patience that outlasts the frantic pulse of our own lives. We build our monuments to reach toward the heavens, carving our names into granite and marble, hoping to tether ourselves to the earth long after our breath has faded into the wind. But the stone does not care for our names; it only knows the slow, rhythmic passage of light and the fleeting shadows of those who pass beneath its arches. We are merely guests in the halls of history, leaving behind nothing but the soft imprint of our footsteps on the floor. Does the stone remember the warmth of the hands that shaped it, or is it simply waiting for the next shadow to cross its path?