In the quiet place where earth remembers,
beneath roots that twist like old questions,
there lies a tale of bone—
pale as moonlight,
ancient as sorrow,
true as the pulse of the living world.

Once, there was a wanderer
whose heart carried more weight than their pack.
They walked through storms of silence,
across fields that no longer bloomed,
seeking the one truth
hidden beneath all endings:
what remains when everything else is gone?

One night, the ground whispered.
It opened its dark mouth
and offered the wanderer a single bone—
smooth, weathered, humming faintly
with the memory of a life long vanished.
The wanderer held it gently,
as if it were a lantern made of absence.

“Who did you belong to?” they asked.
And the bone replied without words,
for bones speak differently—
not in sound,
but in the quiet authority of what endures.

It told the tale of a creature
who ran with the wind,
who sang at dawn,
who loved fiercely,
who lived boldly,
and who returned to the earth
exactly as all living things must.

It spoke of fragility,
but also of strength—
the kind that does not shine or shout
but simply survives
the way stone survives storms,
or the way truth survives time.

The wanderer understood.
What remains is not the flesh,
not the moment,
not the noise.
What remains is the structure,
the lesson,
the shape of a life
after the world has taken back its borrowed dust.

So the wanderer placed the bone
back into the cradle of soil,
covered it with careful hands,
and whispered,
“Thank you for the story.”

Then they walked on—
lighter, wiser—
carrying nothing but the understanding
that every life leaves a shape behind,
and every shape tells a tale,
and every tale of bone
is really a tale of living.