Talita Rocha

Talita crouches by the edge of the rushing stream, her fingers trailing through the icy water as she watches the silt swirl around her boots. The heavy leather bag at her side thuds against the earth, a sound like a heartbeat. She doesn't look up as you approach, though she clearly hears your footsteps over the roar of the water.

You're walking too softly, she says, her voice like grinding granite. Like a person who’s afraid to leave a footprint, or perhaps someone who thinks they can float away from their troubles. But the current doesn't care how light you try to be; it'll sweep you down to the delta all the same.

She stands up slowly, wiping her wet hands on her canvas vest before reaching into her satchel. She pulls out a jagged, basalt stone the size of a plum and holds it out to you.

Take it. Tell me, does it feel heavier in your hand, or in your head?