She left her sandals in the hall, and a story of the Black Stone in one December.
Some stones are gems. Gems come with their own meaning. To life of the beholder.
Grandpa collected stones. Grandpa favorited the black one. He, with one thousand name called him at last, after handing the precious ones to the precious ones, the most precious one to the most precious one.
A boy, his grandson, he picked up the Black Stone. Grandpa nodded. He is the apple of his eyes. Fond of him the most. Grandson shared the same heart.
Precious as it may, the Black Stone unknowingly was bridging life.
Now, nothing can be redeemed.
The new scooter, landed on a road, one fine afternoon. One head on the floor, and not moving. It never moved again.
Heavier tears after another heavy tears within 3 months. That was the time allowed by the Black Stone to be in grandson’s hands. He’s gone to see grandpa to rejoin their lost love.
The Black Stone defined love.
I walked on her sandals and to the wide opened curtain. As she always did.
