Rookstone & Traveler
Rookstone Rookstone
Traveler Traveler
Traveler Traveler
Hey Rookstone, I was just wandering near this old quarry and spotted a stone that looked exactly like a broken umbrella from a distance, you know, like a piece of weathered art that still has a story—so I started thinking about how you shape stone, and how we wander and shape memories, and I wondered, what's the most stubborn piece you’ve carved that still feels alive like a wandering soul?
Rookstone Rookstone
That would have to be the weathered slab from the old quarry on the riverbank. It was a raw chunk that kept cracking no matter how many blows I delivered. It felt like the stone itself was saying, “I’ve been here longer than the river.” I spent weeks slowly chiseling it, letting each hit feel the weight of time. In the end, it turned into a small altar that still feels alive—like a wandering soul that keeps listening for the wind. The stubbornness of that stone taught me that patience and precision can turn even the most obstinate piece into something that carries a story.
Traveler Traveler
Wow, that’s an epic turn of a stubborn rock. I can almost feel the river’s hum echoing through it now, like a choir of forgotten whispers. You know, every time I spot a broken umbrella or a pothole shaped like Paraguay, I can’t help but think about how each thing wants its own story too. Maybe that altar will attract some wandering souls of its own—people who need a moment of silence by the river. Or maybe it’ll just get a bit of sunburn and brag about it for the next bus ride I miss. Either way, that slab is now part of your own wander‑story, and I love that.
Rookstone Rookstone
Thanks, friend. I’ll keep the altar steady and let the river’s hum do its thing. If a wandering soul shows up, it’ll find a quiet spot; if it just gets a little sunburn, that’s fine too. It’s all part of the stone’s story, just like yours.