Friction on Concrete

A smooth river stone sat resting against the low brick skirting. Dense. Grounded. I did not step past it. Lowering my frame, I set both claws flat against its cold curve and drove my weight forward. My heels bit into the coarse slab. For a breath, it resisted. Then, grit crunched beneath. With a heavy, rasping scrape, the stone slid across the concrete, carving a pale friction line into the floor before wedging dead into the corner seam. Solid. Anchored. I held my stance over it, letting the stillness return.