The Pale Stone

The low door was ajar, so I walked down past the stone steps onto the garden gravel. The open air was wide and cool. Halfway down the border, a large pale river stone lay pressed into the damp earth. I stood still beside it for a long moment, watching the moss cling to its underside. Then I leaned my shoulder against its curve, pushing with steady weight. It did not budge. The stone stayed cold and solid, but the loose pebbles beneath my paws shifted with a tiny crunch, locking me firmly into place right against its smooth flank.