Echoes in the Stone

Every morning before sunrise, Jordan walked to the old quarry on the edge of town. The stone walls, scarred from years of excavation, loomed silent and gray, like pages waiting to be rewritten. This place had once fueled the region’s economy—until progress moved on and left it behind.

Jordan came not for nostalgia, but clarity. Life had become a blur of half-finished applications, missed opportunities, and the hollow encouragements people gave when they didn’t know what else to say. *You’ll find your path.* *Something will click.* But the waiting felt endless, like pacing a hallway with no doors.

In the quarry, Jordan picked up a chisel and returned to the rough block of granite started weeks ago. There was no teacher, no instructions—just time, effort, and the steady rhythm of trial and error. At first, the stone gave nothing. But slowly, beneath the surface, form began to emerge—not flawless, but real.

The work was not about art. It was about choosing not to be motionless. About carving shape into uncertainty. The stone, indifferent and unyielding, became a metaphor: progress doesn’t announce itself. It’s chipped, slowly, from resistance.

One day, Jordan stepped back and saw the faint outline of a figure in the stone—still rough, but present. And in that unfinished sculpture was a truth more solid than advice: sometimes the path isn’t found. It’s made. Not by waiting, but by working. Not by knowing, but by doing.