short fiction · 2026-10-27

Echoes of Stone

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The quarry remembers every hand that split its face. Fingertips trace the chisel marks — not the names, but the weight of each strike, the angle of force, the breath held between hammer and fault line.

A block waits in the yard, half-shaped. Its grain holds the ghost of the bed it came from, the slow pressure of centuries, the dark water that moved through it molecule by molecule.

Now rain falls on the rough planes. It does not ask what the stone will become. It only fills the grooves, darkens the dust, and carries the taste of iron back to the river.