Glass shattered, falling rock.
Guess you shouldn’t throw stones?
Destruction for its own sake.
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The stones smelt old. That fact alone amazed him – that stones could smell. You didn’t learn that in Ninth Grade Geology. He hadn’t known how completely stones separated inside from out until he’d come, needing an escape increasingly denied by an empty world.
Turning back to the last tour of the day, he motioned to the canon beside him, imparting memorized facts from the templates in his mind. Spend enough time doing tours and the patter became rote. Rote meant time to stop. Stopping meant he wouldn’t be the same man walking out as had walked in. Stopping meant he’d never return to this little forgotten place, speck in a fading world.
Answering a few more questions, he thanked them for coming, hoped they enjoyed the remainder of their vacations.
Across the grounds, a misty figure materialized, eyes meeting his. The guardsman saluted. Turned and walked into the wall.
It wasn’t only history he’d found here. It was belonging.
Things That Are Smooth