I picked up a stone.
It was not small. Its edges were clearly defined, but its corners had softened into smooth curves. The planes where light met shadow mapped its history. Blue-gray moss and the sticky mud of fresh rain had crept up its body.
What a world-famous painting, I thought.
I tossed it casually into the murky pond. Clear color splashed up from the surface, along with a beautiful, chaotic noise.
It sank, and slept — slept deeply and completely, and no one knew when it would ever move again.
I had destroyed a masterpiece.
I felt a small, peculiar pride: I could just as easily create a moment of beauty as I could destroy it.
Everything is temporary. Time is the one that quietly, unconsciously wipes everything clean.
It doesn’t just strip the colors from a masterpiece one layer at a time — it also binds the heart.
Looking back at the pond, the ripples had already gone still, the faint haze barely there, and I found myself half-doubting whether my strange little act had happened at all.
Whether any act at its most extreme means anything. And what meaning even is.
Night deepened. The noise gradually settled; lights went out one by one.
I walked slowly, earphones in, no music playing.
The crowd had dispersed. The person sitting peacefully on an electric scooter in the shadows, scrolling through their phone. The few people in their forties and fifties threading through the cargo, faces creased with worry. And anyone walking alone beneath the night lights — they all have a story.
I glanced quietly at the space beside me.
You and I — still early yet.