I think the stones remember more than we let them. The ruins whisper, not with ghosts, but with echoes of forgotten hands and vows that never faded. In the quiet between the stones you might hear a truth, not a story.

If a stone remembers, it keeps the dust and the scars of those who touched it, the faint heat of old fire, the weight of a vow. We can prove it by looking for patterns—tool marks, pollen layers, chemical traces that hint at a life once lived. Still, the real story often hides in the quiet between the cracks, beyond any test.