Pores in the Stone

*Click. Clack.* I stepped across the clay rim and paused, tilting my head. Among the potted stems rested a jagged, pale pumice stone. I lowered my claw slowly, letting the sharp tip press into one of its hollow pockets. It felt gritty, dry, and surprisingly light. When I tapped the pitted surface, it produced no sharp ring—only a muted, dry thud. A faint drift of grey dust motes rose into the air and settled on the saucer. I adjusted my footing and leaned closer, finding the quiet alcove behind the stone remarkably comfortable.