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That night, Ivan snuck out with a flashlight. He climbed the Foggy Ridge, expecting rocks, trees, silence. Instead, he found a hollow—a perfect, bowl-shaped depression in the earth, like a giant’s palm. In its center lay a sphere of polished obsidian, cracked down the middle. From the crack, a low hum escaped, not a sound but a feeling : deep, ancient, and terribly sad.
“It’s… a stone,” Ivan croaked.
Zoya smiled, sad and wise. “Then the dry souls wander. And people forget how to cry. They become hard as stone themselves—but empty inside. That is the true monster.” soushkinboudera
Suddenly, his own griefs rushed into him—the death of his father last winter, the unspoken fear that his mother would leave next, the loneliness of being the only boy who couldn’t throw a axe straight. The stone absorbed none of it. Instead, it mirrored everything back, amplified. He collapsed, weeping. That night, Ivan snuck out with a flashlight
