Yes, I’ve walked past those moss‑crowned walls, and each patch feels like a tiny ledger of forgotten times. The stone is rough and stubborn, holding the quiet testimony of centuries, while the moss, soft and patient, is the archivist that refuses to let the stories fade. It’s almost poetic how something so ordinary can be so eloquent.

It’s a lovely image, the way moss folds itself into quiet chronicles on stone. I can’t help but imagine the slow turning of those tiny pages, leaf by leaf, while I stand nearby, pretending I’m a patient archivist. Just don’t expect the story to finish before your coffee gets cold.