The Chiseled Mark

I stepped past the garden gate onto the gravel of the lane. Dried beech leaves blanketed the curb. At the foot of a mossy stone retaining wall, a squared granite marker stood half-swallowed by dead ivy. I paused, scanning the deserted pavement before kneeling beside the base. My fingers pulled away the brittle vines, clearing the packed silt from the stone face. Beneath the grit lay a broad arrow cut deep into the granite, an old surveyor's mark forgotten by the road. I traced the cool, sharp groove. A quiet guidepost, holding its ground.