Chapter 57 · for subscribers
Eleven stones. I have swept the needles off every one of them twice a year since I was eight and I know them by the moss. There were thirteen in that clearing at dusk — eleven mossed, one standing new and cut at the end of the row, and one lying on its face in the grass behind it, blank side up, the way a stone waits in a cutter's yard for the name to be settled.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.