Fragment IV — What the Stones Remember
She was told that the columns once stood taller.
Not because they were higher, but because the land had not yet lowered itself around them.
Her grandmother used to say that when the moon passed clean between the pillars, the god could see the whole ridge at once. Not the valley. Not the town. The ridge.
She said the columns were not built for warmth. They were built for witness.
She had asked her once why no writing marked the stone.
She told him writing was for counting grain and measuring debt. The god did not require counting.
She remembers her hands when she said it. Scarred across the knuckles. Stronger than most men she knew.
They say there was a time when the ritual did not fit between two columns. It spilled beyond them. Fires lined the ridge. Not in the valley below. Along the height.
She does not know if this is true.
But she knows the ash does not come from cooking.
She knows the sinew found in the mortar was not discarded.
She knows the columns do not face the sun.
They face the ridge where the oldest graves lie.
She has stood there herself at full moon and watched the light fall not southward, but upward—silvering the stone faces that no longer carry names.
The Empire says the site is small.
It is only small now.
The Empire says it was local.
She was told it was where the clans became one, not under rule, but under vow.
She does not argue with the Empire.
She simply returns each year when the moon clears the pillars.
And stands where her grandmother stood.