In the tiny, dusty room, there lay two round stones. They’d been there as long as she could remember: too heavy to move. She didn’t know what they were and she’d never really had time to ask. She was too busy: roaming, begging, hiding, stealing.
She’d found the room abandoned, the perfect place to hide from the patrols and the cold. Everything she owned – picked from gutters and bins – was packed into a window. At night she lit a fire and let firelight dance over her face.
The grindstones watched, memories of a world gone by, their purpose long forgotten.
Word Count: 100
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Shaktiki Sharma for providing the prompt photo!