The Corner Stone

By Peter Bowden


The corner stone sat low and weathered, cradled in the cool shadow of the countryside church. Its surface was rough, etched with the chisel marks of hands long gone, the date 1856 still visible beneath the creeping tendrils of ivy and the slow, persistent advance of moss. It bore the weight of the place, a simple, solemn foundation that had seen generations kneel in prayer, murmur in grief, and rise in quiet, steely faith. Sunlight broke through the tall oaks, casting thin blades of morning light against the stone, like the first hopeful notes of a hymn.

Inside, the wood creaked with the shifting breeze, each groan a whisper of all the births, marriages, and funerals it had witnessed. Dust motes swirled in the light through the stained glass, each particle a ghost of days long past, suspended in the slow breath of the place. The air carried the faint scent of beeswax and aging pine, a testament to the hands that polished the pews, their work a ritual as steady as the ticking of the clock above the pulpit.

And outside, the cornerstone held firm, a silent sentinel as the seasons turned, leaves fell, and the wind carried the echoes of old hymns across the fields. It knew the feel of rainwater tracing its rough edges, the sharp bite of winter frost, the warmth of summer sun. It had become a part of the land itself, unmoved by the passing years, a quiet, steadfast witness to the prayers that lingered like shadows, too deep to fade.


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