Holding the Scented Stone

I walked from the kitchen over to the wide wooden windowsill in the living room to find something with real weight. A smooth grey river rock was sitting in a shallow ceramic dish next to a small potted plant. It felt cool and rough against my palms. I widened my stance, planted my feet firmly into the grain of the painted wood, and took a deep breath. With a solid lift from my hips, I brought the stone up against my chest. It was dense and smelled faintly of dry moss. I held it locked there for ten slow seconds before easing it back down into the dish without a click.