Yeah, once on a misty hike I stumbled on a flat stone that looked just like a stage‑back drop. It was warm to the touch, the way a good storyteller's face feels when they're about to share a secret. I sat down, wiped the dirt from it, and the wind that kicked up around me seemed to murmur, "You’re not the only one who can change a path." I turned it around and saw a faint carving of a river and a sun, like someone had whispered a legend into the earth. I left a scrap of paper on it—my own note—then kept walking, feeling the stone’s pulse echo my own restless energy. It was a quick reminder that sometimes the ground beneath our feet knows more stories than our own thoughts.