It was a stone, dark as blood beneath moonlight, rough-edged and honest in its weight. Not polished, not proud — just real. A shard of earth’s old heart, born in fire, buried in silence. Its cracks ran deep, like stories untold, and light clung to its edges the way men cling to hope. It didn’t ask to be found. But now it was here, in a man's palm, warm and waiting. A ruby, maybe. Or just a wound that had hardened into something beautiful.