Interlude II – The Hairline Crack

She dreams of foundations.

Of staircases carved directly into bedrock. Of walls that do not crumble, no matter how long the centuries lean against them.

In the dream, she walks barefoot across cold stone and feels warmth gather beneath her soles — not heat, but recognition.

When she wakes, her palms ache.

She does not question why she returns.

The clearing lies quiet, fractured slabs of gray stone exposed where the earth never fully reclaimed them.

She kneels.

Presses her hand down.

This time, the answer comes immediately.

A vibration rises through her skin — subtle, deliberate. Not violent. Not urgent.

Intentional.

It travels the length of her arm and settles beneath her ribs, heavy as something taking measure.

The stone does not move.

It does not crack or shift.

And yet she feels unmistakably observed.

Not by sky.

Not by forest.

But by something older than both.

Something that has always been here.

Waiting for weight.