The Memory Stone

 

“The Memory Stone”

Beneath the whispering canopy of an ancestral forest, a stone rests upon a lattice of knotted roots—part sculpture, part relic. Its cracked hollow mirrors the cradle of earth itself, worn into shape by wind, rain, and perhaps a thousand footsteps from the generations who knew this place before names were needed.

This stone is not merely an object—it is an altar. A witness to silent offerings and unspoken prayers. It has held the light of a thousand dawns and the dark of many griefs. Today, as someone sits nearby in reverent calm, the rock seems to awaken once more—not with words, but with presence. Perhaps it once marked a burial. Or a birth. Perhaps it was left by someone who loved the forest and wanted never to be forgotten.

Whatever its origin, it now stands between memory and myth, alive in its stillness.

💬 Lovable Quote

“She didn’t speak to the stone—but she listened, and somehow, it remembered her.”

🪶 Poem: 

“The Hollow Where Time Hides”

At the foot of the tree, where roots entwine,

A stone lay shaped by sacred time.

Its hollow held more than mere decay—

It caught the breath of yesterday.

No one carved it, yet it knew

The curve of loss, the kiss of dew.

It bore the rain, endured the sun,

And cradled shadows when day was done.

She came with silence in her hands,

No incense burned, no bold demands.

Just stillness offered to the ground—

And in return, the past unbound.

A stone, a root, a life unknown—

Yet in that hush, she wasn’t alone.

For some things speak, though they don’t cry—

Like moss, or stones, or wind gone by.