The trader did not travel empty-handed. He brought no goods to trade — only a shard he claimed the strangers had dropped.
It was small — dark, ridged, and cold in a way that didn’t feel right. Heavier than stone, though no larger than a finger. It was foreign to our eyes.
The elders turned it over in silence. Some said it was made by fire. Others whispered of a tool — or the edge of something broken. No one knew for certain.
“They bleed like men,” the trader said. “But what they carry was shaped by ways we do not know.”
That night, we passed it from hand to hand.
And while it was held, no one spoke.
To Be Continued…
