Not many could make stone into illusion.
Her hands carved softness into unyielding rock. Made age appear into the moss as if the stone itself shed velvet, hewed damp to seep from underneath the surface as if through the core of sighing cushions, long forgotten, left to rot.
Only it was not.
Instead of a discarded chair, it was a throne. A headstone.
A memorial to the man who’d scooped her out of orphaned desperation, who brought her here, who led her to her heart’s forgotten home.
She held the memories of his calloused hands atop her shoulders. Steadying her mallet, guiding her chisel, letting her learn. Letting her fail. Letting her know she was worthy. As was he. Just because she was.
His masonry was practical. Fences. Houses. Walls.
Hers sang to the forest floor as she carved. His armchair, reincarnated.
For eternity. Her parent of soul.
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge