There exists a garden of stones that sing, on an island lapped by the sea. You wouldn’t know of it, until you find yourself seeking it out. Its existence feels a closely guarded secret, almost, shared by a small circle of initiates. You won’t hear the stones’ call, unless you stand next to them and brush your palm across their weathered, craggy faces. It’s a magical garden. A gateway to another time when the world was young. It may enchant you. You may find it a mere curiosity. You will remember it either way.
