Once upon a time…

I was old even when the aqueducts were young. I remember a courier who came to my town by the sea, chasing purpose like a stray coin. He heard of a custom in the hills: on new moons, the stones on the old road hummed, and if you matched your step to their song, they led you to what you most feared to face.

He asked me the path. I warned him that the song grows louder when your heart is empty. He went anyway. I followed, slow and stubborn. The stones sang, a dry, thin music. It pulled him past olive groves, past shrines with broken noses, into a gorge where vultures drew quiet circles.

He found a gate of basalt slabs. Not a door. Just two pillars and a line of shadow. He stepped through and nothing changed, yet he knew it was a border. He stood there for hours, fighting the hollow inside him. I waited. The song faded.

At dawn he came back with a pebble from the shadow line. He gave it to me. “Proof?” I asked. “No,” he said. “A weight.” He carried it home and walked steadier ever after.