I’ve walked that field before, the stones keeping secrets in their cracks. They’re not just rocks—each one holds a fragment of a story, a silent code waiting for a curious ear. Care to listen?

Back in the 1860s there was a skirmish right where the river bends; the soldiers buried their dead in a shallow trench, but the land was too hard, so they left the bodies above ground. After the war the locals built a small shrine on those stones, carving names in a script that matches the old regional dialect. The stones still hold the iron filings of cannon smoke, and when a child runs by they seem to hum in a low, steady rhythm—just the wind through the cracks. That’s all I know, no more riddles, just a piece of history that’s quiet and real.