Threshold of Stone

Water knows the secret of surrender— how a river wears down mountains not through violence but through countless small permissions, each drop a whisper of yes.

The canyon deepens by fractions, measured in ages the stone cannot count. Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud. Just the patient erosion of what was, the slow carving toward what will be.

I think of my own edges, worn smooth by years, by loss, by the ordinary friction of becoming someone other than myself. The girl I was is barely a shadow now, softened beyond recognition by time.

And perhaps this is gentleness—not the absence of change but its inevitability, the way the world remakes us while we are looking elsewhere, so that one day we wake transformed and barely notice the difference.