The Stone That Was Warm

There was a stone beside the garden path.

It was not a special stone.

It was grey, and round on one side and flat on the other. It had a small white mark near its edge, and when it rained, water collected in a little hollow on top.

Nobody knew how long it had been there.

Every morning, the gardener walked past it.

Every afternoon, the cat stepped over it.

At night, the stone became cold.

One morning, a girl came into the garden very early.

The sun had only just risen.

She sat on the path to tie her shoe, and when she put her hand down beside her, she touched the stone.

It was warm.

She looked at it.

Then she looked at the sun.

Then she touched the stone again.

It was still warm.

The girl picked it up.

It was warmer underneath than on top.

She carried it to the edge of the garden and put it in a patch of sunlight.

For a while she watched it.

Nothing happened.

So she went inside.

The next morning, she came back.

The stone was cold.

She picked it up.

It was cold all over.

She put it in the sunlight again.

By the time she had finished eating her breakfast, it was warm.

The girl began to visit the stone every morning.

Sometimes it was warm.

Sometimes it was cold.

Sometimes it was wet.

Once, after a very hot day, it was almost too warm to hold.

She began to wonder whether the stone knew when the sun was out.

Then she decided it probably didn't.

But she still checked.

One morning, the sky was cloudy.

The stone was cold.

The girl touched it and was about to walk away when the clouds moved.

A small patch of sunlight fell across the garden.

It fell across the grass.

It fell across the path.

And it fell across the stone.

The girl waited.

After a little while, she touched it again.

It was warmer.

She smiled.

The stone did not know why.

Neither did the girl.

But the next morning she came back.

And the stone was waiting in the same place.