The Stone's Inheritance

Moss arrives in small green whispers, claiming what was left untouched— a prayer in spores, a patient grammar written across forgotten monuments.

It asks nothing of the stone, only time and the honest damp, the kind of darkness that cradles rather than conceals.

Each tendril a conversation between what persists and what returns, a treaty written in chlorophyll and compromise on the surfaces we abandoned.

This is how the world speaks softly— not with thunder but with moss, with the slow resurrection of green on everything we thought was done.