Erosion of Stone

The river whispers what it took years to learn— that gentleness outlasts the hammer strike, that persistence wears away the mountain's jaw without ever raising its voice.

A stone remembers every touch of current that shaped its edges smooth, carries the memory of thousands of miles in the polish of its skin.

We are the same, you and I, carved by the slow insistence of days, becoming something new without noticing, until one morning we don't recognize the reflected face staring back.

Time is not a thief— it is a sculptor with infinite patience, and we are the marble, beautiful precisely because of what we've lost.