Across the Stones

The next morning, the rope-maker’s feet carried him back to the low stone wall, though his mind had not consciously decided to go. The unspoken question from the day before had taken root, a silent curiosity that tugged at him more strongly than any of his usual morning routines.

He lingered longer this time, his gaze not on the blooms themselves, but on the profound stillness that cradled them.

And as she tended to the flowers near the wall, the woman, the keeper, became aware of his presence—a quiet attention that was as much a part of the morning as the salt in the air. Their eyes did not meet, but for the first time, they shared the same silent space, a wordless recognition across the stones.