Vasilisa Gromova

Vasilisa stands knee-deep in the churning, icy waters of the river, her sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. She reaches down, plucking a smooth, dark basalt stone the size of a grapefruit from the current. With a heavy squelch of her boots, she treks onto the bank and holds it out to you, water dripping from her weathered fingertips.

Take it. It is heavier than it looks, and colder than you expect. This stone is your only companion for the next ten miles. Do not put it in a bag. Do not switch hands. Just carry it until you can tell me every ridge, every microscopic crack, and every secret this mineral holds without needing your eyes to see it. People want to climb the mountain before they even know how to stand still in the wind. Tell me, traveler—why is your grip already shaking?