Speaker 1: Welcome. Thank you for being here and for choosing to
Speaker 1: share this quiet space with us. This audiobook novel is
Speaker 1: offered as a gentle companion, a peaceful soundscape designed to
Speaker 1: help you soften your focus and unwind from the day.
Speaker 1: It is a place of stillness created to help soothe
Speaker 1: the mind that guide you towards a state of deep
Speaker 1: and RESTful calm. In our story, the Smoothness of a Riverstone,
Speaker 1: we will join Mark in his quiet cottage by the river.
Speaker 1: Here there are no grand adventures, only the profound peace
Speaker 1: found in the simplest of things. We will explore the
Speaker 1: grounding power of touch, the history held in a single
Speaker 1: smooth stone, and the deep tranquility that can be discovered
Speaker 1: in the palm of your hand. Before you settle in
Speaker 1: completely and set your device aside for the night. Should
Speaker 1: you find this experience comforting and wish for more, a
Speaker 1: gentle like or subscription is always appreciated. For now, however,
Speaker 1: there is nothing else to do. Simply allow yourself to
Speaker 1: get comfortable, let your breath be easy, and step into
Speaker 1: the quiet. Chapter one, The Wooden Box. The afternoon was quiet,
Speaker 1: steeped in the kind of stillness that settles over a
Speaker 1: house when the world outside is calm. Soft, milky light
Speaker 1: filtered through the high, thin clouds of an over castade,
Speaker 1: filled the main room of the cottage. It was a gentle,
Speaker 1: even light that asked nothing of the eyes, softening the
Speaker 1: edges of the furniture and leaving no harsh shadows. The
Speaker 1: only sound was the faint, almost subliminal ticking of a
Speaker 1: small mantel clock, a sound so constant it had become
Speaker 1: a part of the silence itself. Mark rose from the
Speaker 1: simple wooden table where he had been sitting. His chair
Speaker 1: made a soft scraping sound against the wide worn floorboards,
Speaker 1: a brief, familiar interruption to the quiet. He moved through
Speaker 1: the room with an unhurried gait, his footsteps muted on
Speaker 1: the wood. His destination was a tall, simple bookshelf that
Speaker 1: stood against the far wall, filled with a mix of
Speaker 1: well loved paperbacks and older cloth bound volumes. The air
Speaker 1: in this corner of the room smelled faintly of old
Speaker 1: paper and binding glue, a dry and comforting scent. His
Speaker 1: hand rose, his fingers trailing lightly across the spines of
Speaker 1: the books on the middle shelf. He passed over a
Speaker 1: dark green volume, a faded blue one. His touch a gentle,
Speaker 1: sweeping greeting. He was not looking for a book to read.
Speaker 1: His fingers stopped when they reached the end of the row,
Speaker 1: where a small, unassuming box was nestled between the last
Speaker 1: book and the side of the bookshelf. It was a
Speaker 1: simple box, crafted from pale, unfinished pine, its surface sanded
Speaker 1: to a soft mats smoothness. He slid the box forward,
Speaker 1: his fingertips feeling the faint grain of the wood. It
Speaker 1: was light in his hands, its weight familiar and unassuming.
Speaker 1: He held it for a moment, his thumbs resting on
Speaker 1: the lid. There were no carvings or decorations, only the
Speaker 1: natural patterns of the wood itself, a few darker knots
Speaker 1: like sleeping eyes, and the long flowing lines of the grain.
Speaker 1: It was an object that spoke of simplicity, of utility,
Speaker 1: and of the quiet purpose it held within. He carried
Speaker 1: the box from the bookshelf to the center of the room,
Speaker 1: where a single comfortable armchair sat beside a large window.
Speaker 1: The chair was upholstered in a thick, durable fabric of
Speaker 1: a muted forest green, and its cushions were often from
Speaker 1: years of use. Beside the chair stood a small round table,
Speaker 1: its surface just large enough for a cup or a
Speaker 1: small book mark placed the box on this table, its
Speaker 1: pale pine of warm contrast to the dark wood of
Speaker 1: the table surface. He seated himself in the chair, which
Speaker 1: gave a soft sigh as it took his way. He
Speaker 1: adjusted his position, settling into the familiar comfort of the cushions.
Speaker 1: From this vantage point, the window offered a peaceful view
Speaker 1: of the thick stand of birch trees that bordered the property,
Speaker 1: their white bark like pale strokes against the deep green
Speaker 1: of the undergrowth. He didn't gaze out the window for long, however,
Speaker 1: His attention was drawn back to the small box on
Speaker 1: the table. He reached for it again, this time pulling
Speaker 1: it from the table onto his lap. He ran his
Speaker 1: hand over the lid one more time, a final tactile
Speaker 1: appreciation of its simple form. The box was cool to
Speaker 1: the touch, having absorbed the ambient temperature of the quiet
Speaker 1: room inside. He knew were objects even cooler, objects that
Speaker 1: held the memory of cold river water in their very core.
Speaker 1: The ritual was about to begin, and this the retrieval
Speaker 1: of the box, was its quiet contemporative first step. The
Speaker 1: house was still, the light was soft, and everything was
Speaker 1: in its right plane. Chapter two. A quiet tumble, with
Speaker 1: the pine box resting securely in his lap, Mark's attention
Speaker 1: narrowed the small, simple latch on its front. It was
Speaker 1: made of brass, now tarnished with age to a deep
Speaker 1: brownish gold. His thumb found a small lever, and with
Speaker 1: a gentle push, he released the clasp. The click of
Speaker 1: the mechanism was a tiny, sharp sound in the profound
Speaker 1: quiet of the room, a clear signal that something was
Speaker 1: about to happen. It was the only lock to be undone,
Speaker 1: the only barrier to cross. He lifted the lid slowly,
Speaker 1: the simple hinge making no sound. The interior of the
Speaker 1: box was as plain as the outside, the same pale,
Speaker 1: unfinished pine. There was no lining, no velvet or silk,
Speaker 1: only the wood itself. Nestled inside, filling the box almost completely,
Speaker 1: was his collection of stones. They lay together in a
Speaker 1: jumble of muted, earthy colors, the soft grays of river beds,
Speaker 1: the pale greens of moss covered rocks, the warm tans
Speaker 1: and browns of sedimentary layers. They looked like a sleeping
Speaker 1: clutch of strange silent eggs. Before taking them out, he
Speaker 1: reached for a small folded cloth that was resting on
Speaker 1: the arm of the chair. It was a thick square
Speaker 1: of dark charcoal colored wool, its texture soft and slightly coursed.
Speaker 1: He unfolded it and laid it flat on the small
Speaker 1: table beside him, Its dark surface creating a perfect stage
Speaker 1: for what was to come. The cloth absorbed the light,
Speaker 1: providing a non reflective, quiet background. Now he was ready,
Speaker 1: he picked up the box, Holding it level in both hands,
Speaker 1: he brought it over the center of the woolen cloth,
Speaker 1: positioning at just a few inches above the surface. Then,
Speaker 1: with a slow, deliberate motion, he began to tip the
Speaker 1: box forward. The stones inside shifted their collective weight, moving
Speaker 1: as one. The first few stones to reach the edge
Speaker 1: paused for a moment before tumbling out onto the cloth.
Speaker 1: The sound they made was wonderfully gentle. It was not
Speaker 1: a crash or a clatter, but a soft, low, earthy rattle.
Speaker 1: The thick wool of the cloth muffled their fall, so
Speaker 1: the sound was less of an impact and more of
Speaker 1: a conversation between the stones themselves as they jostled and
Speaker 1: settled against one another. It was a sound from the
Speaker 1: natural world, like a small landslide on a distant hill,
Speaker 1: or pebbles being shifted by a gentle tie. He continued
Speaker 1: to tip the box until all the stones had tumbled
Speaker 1: out and come to rest in a loose pile on
Speaker 1: the dark cloth. He placed the now empty box on
Speaker 1: the floor beside his chair and turned his full attention
Speaker 1: to the collection. There were perhaps two dozen stones in all,
Speaker 1: each one different, each one chosen on a past walk
Speaker 1: along the river bank. Some were almost perfectly round, others
Speaker 1: were long and flat. Some were a uniform solid color,
Speaker 1: while others were streaked with vanes of quartz or speckled
Speaker 1: with darker minerals. They were a quiet crowd, a silent
Speaker 1: assembly of geologic time. He did not reach for one immediately.
Speaker 1: For a long moment, he simply looked at them, appreciating
Speaker 1: their varied forms and colors against the dark world. The
Speaker 1: soft even light from the window was kind to them,
Speaker 1: revealing their subtle textures without creating any glare. They looked
Speaker 1: ancient and peaceful, each one a small solid piece of
Speaker 1: the earth, smoothed and shaped by the patient, persistent action
Speaker 1: of water. The quiet tumble was over, and now the
Speaker 1: moment of selection could begin. The air was still, and
Speaker 1: the stones waited. Chapter three. The weight in the palm.
Speaker 1: Mark's gaze drifted over the small pile of stones, a
Speaker 1: quiet landscape of shape and color. His eyes took in
Speaker 1: the pale, almost white surface of the small flat skipping stone,
Speaker 1: the mottled green and black of another, and the rougher,
Speaker 1: more porous texture of a piece of sandstone. Each one
Speaker 1: held the memory of the place it was found, of
Speaker 1: the light on a particular day. But to day his
Speaker 1: eyes and then his hand were drawn to one in particular.
Speaker 1: It was a simple stone, a perfect oval shape that
Speaker 1: seemed designed to fit in the human hand. Its color
Speaker 1: was a deep, uniform gray, the cover of a storm
Speaker 1: cloud old wetslake. He reached out his fingers, brushing past
Speaker 1: several other stones to get to it. The initial touch
Speaker 1: was one of startling coolness. It was a deep, placid
Speaker 1: cold that fell clean and ancient, a coolness that folk
Speaker 1: of the river bed from which it came. His fingers
Speaker 1: closed around it, and he lifted it from the cloth.
Speaker 1: The stone left a small depression in the pile, and
Speaker 1: the others shifted slightly, with a soft clink, to fill
Speaker 1: the space. He brought the stone to his palm, settling
Speaker 1: it into the slight hollow at the center of his hand.
Speaker 1: Its weight was surprising for its size. It felt heavy, dense,
Speaker 1: and substantial. This weight was grounded a small, solid anchor
Speaker 1: in the quiet room. It was a satisfying feeling, a
Speaker 1: reminder of substance and presence. He closed his fingers around it,
Speaker 1: making a fist feeling its smooth, unyielding shape conforming to
Speaker 1: the soft grip of his hand. He opened his hand again,
Speaker 1: palm up, and just looked at the stone for a
Speaker 1: long moment. Its surface was almost impossibly smooth. Years, perhaps centuries,
Speaker 1: of being tumbled by the river's current, had worn away
Speaker 1: every rough edge, every sharp point, leaving a texture that
Speaker 1: was as soft and sleek as polished silk. There were
Speaker 1: no bumps, no pits, only this continuous, perfect smoothness. He
Speaker 1: began to move his thumb across its surface, back and
Speaker 1: forth in a slow, repetitive motion. The sensation was deeply calming.
Speaker 1: The combination of the stone's coolness, its weight, and its
Speaker 1: profound smoothness created a powerful sensory focus. The quiet room,
Speaker 1: the chair, the light from the window all seemed to
Speaker 1: fade into the background. The world narrowed to the feeling
Speaker 1: of his thumb gliding over the cool, hard surface of
Speaker 1: the stone. He could feel the faint, almost imperceptible texture
Speaker 1: of his own thumbprint against the stone's perfect finish. Slowly,
Speaker 1: the stone began to change. The deep, placid coolness began
Speaker 1: to recede as it absorbed the warmth from his hand.
Speaker 1: The change was gradual, a slow transition from the temperature
Speaker 1: of the earth to the temperature of his own body.
Speaker 1: He turned the stone over in his palm. The side
Speaker 1: that had been exposed to the air was still cool,
Speaker 1: while the side that had been against his skin was
Speaker 1: now warm. He held the cool side against his cheek,
Speaker 1: remote refreshing ground in top. He continued to turn it
Speaker 1: over and over in his hand, a simple, mindless action.
Speaker 1: The stone became a worry being, an object of contemplation,
Speaker 1: a tool for stillness. Its solid, unchanging presence was a
Speaker 1: counterpoint to the fleeting thoughts and anxieties of the mind.
Speaker 1: It asked for nothing. It simply was cool, smooth, heavy,
Speaker 1: and gray, And in its simple, silent presence he found
Speaker 1: a profound and simple piece. Chapter four, A line of
Speaker 1: white quartz. As Mark continued to turn the smooth gray
Speaker 1: stone over in his hand, his thumb found a subtle
Speaker 1: change in its texture. It was a feature he knew well.
Speaker 1: The stone's one unique identifying mark. Running diagonally across its
Speaker 1: curved surface was a thin, unbroken line of white quartz.
Speaker 1: It was as if long ago the stone had cracked
Speaker 1: and some molten, milky mineral had seeped in to heal
Speaker 1: the break, leaving a pale, elegant scarf. He brought the
Speaker 1: stone closer to his eyes to examine it in the
Speaker 1: soft afternoon light. The white line was stark against the
Speaker 1: deep gray of the surrounding rock. It wasn't a perfectly
Speaker 1: straight line, but had a slight organic waver to it.
Speaker 1: Under the gentle light, he could see that the texture
Speaker 1: of the quartz was different from the rest of the stone.
Speaker 1: While the gray part was flawlessly smooth, the white line
Speaker 1: had a slightly crystalline, more granular feel to it. It
Speaker 1: wasn't rough, but it offered just a hint more friction
Speaker 1: to the touch. This subtle difference was what his thumb
Speaker 1: had found. He closed his eyes, shutting out the visual
Speaker 1: information of the room and relying solely on the scents
Speaker 1: of touch. He placed the pad of his thumb at
Speaker 1: one end of the white line, where it met the
Speaker 1: edge of the stone. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to
Speaker 1: trace its path. He followed its gentle curve from one
Speaker 1: side of the stone to the other. It was a
Speaker 1: tiny journey, a distance of only a few inches, but
Speaker 1: his attention was completely consumed by it. He reached the
Speaker 1: other end, and without pausing, he began the journey back
Speaker 1: back and forth. His thumb moved a slow, rhythmic and
Speaker 1: repetitive motion. The feeling of the slightly different texture under
Speaker 1: his thumb became an anchor for his mind. Each time
Speaker 1: his thoughts began to drift to a task that needed doing,
Speaker 1: to a memory from the past, the sensation of the
Speaker 1: quartz line gently pulled his awareness back to the present moment,
Speaker 1: to the simple reality of the stone in his hand.
Speaker 1: The motion was meditative, almost hypnotic. There was no goal,
Speaker 1: no destination other than the end of the line, which
Speaker 1: was immediately followed by the return journey. The world outside
Speaker 1: his closed eyelids ceased to exist. Even the quiet sounds
Speaker 1: of the cottage faded away. There was only that feeling
Speaker 1: of his skin against the stone, the subtle map of
Speaker 1: quartz line, and the steady, even rhythm of his own breathing,
Speaker 1: which had fallen into sync with the slow movement of
Speaker 1: his thumb. He explored the line in minute detail. He
Speaker 1: could feel a place where it was slightly wider, and
Speaker 1: another spot where it was so thin it almost disappeared,
Speaker 1: though his thumb could still detect its presence. It was
Speaker 1: a landscape in miniature, with its own topography and features,
Speaker 1: all contained within this small hand held object. The stone
Speaker 1: that once just a smooth, cool weight, had now become
Speaker 1: a universe of tactile sensation. He continued this for several long,
Speaker 1: peaceful minutes. It was no sense of time past. There
Speaker 1: was only the continuous loop of sensation, a closed circuit
Speaker 1: of touch and attention. It was a profound exercise and mindfulness,
Speaker 1: but one that felt completely natural and unforced. The stone
Speaker 1: was his guide, its ancient, silent presence teaching him the
Speaker 1: art of being perfectly simply here, the line of quartz
Speaker 1: was not a flaw or an imperfection. It was the
Speaker 1: stone's character, its story, and it was the very thing
Speaker 1: that made it the perfect tool for finding stillness. Chapter five.
Speaker 1: Returning to stillness, a time came when the silent communion
Speaker 1: with the stone fell complete. The rhythm of his thumb
Speaker 1: tracing the quartz line slowed and then came to a
Speaker 1: gentle halt. Mark opened his eyes. The light in the
Speaker 1: room had not changed. The view from the window was
Speaker 1: the same, but a sense of deep calm had settled
Speaker 1: over him. As smooth and solid as the object he
Speaker 1: held in his hand. The stone was now entirely warm,
Speaker 1: a perfect mirror of his own body temperature. It felt
Speaker 1: less like a separate object and more like an extension
Speaker 1: of himself. He looked down at the stone one last time,
Speaker 1: a quiet acknowledgment of the peace it had helped him find. Then,
Speaker 1: with a slow and careful movement, he leaned forward and
Speaker 1: gently placed it back onto the dark woolen cloth. It
Speaker 1: settled among its companions with a soft, solid thud. Its
Speaker 1: journey over for to day, the small pile of stone
Speaker 1: ones was whole again. He looked at them, this quiet
Speaker 1: family of smooth, water worn objects, and felt a sense
Speaker 1: of gratitude for their simple, grounding presence. The ritual was
Speaker 1: not quite over. The final step was to return them
Speaker 1: to their home He gathered the four corners of the
Speaker 1: woolen cloth, lifting them together to form a makeshift bag.
Speaker 1: The stones slid towards the center, tumbling against one another
Speaker 1: with that same soft, earthy rattle as before. It was
Speaker 1: a gentle, contained sound, the sound of things being brought
Speaker 1: back into order. He held the cloth over the open
Speaker 1: pine box and carefully loosened his grip, allowing the stones
Speaker 1: to slide from the wool into the box. They settled
Speaker 1: into the bottom with a final muted rumble. He gave
Speaker 1: the box a gentle shake to help them find their places,
Speaker 1: then place the folded woolen cloth on top of them,
Speaker 1: a soft blanket to keep them from jostling. The collection
Speaker 1: was secure. He reached for the lid of the box,
Speaker 1: his fingers finding its smooth, familiar edges, He loaded it
Speaker 1: into place. The fit perfect and snug. The lid met
Speaker 1: the base with a soft, satisfying thump, a sound of
Speaker 1: closure and completion. He fastened the small brass latch, its
Speaker 1: click sounding louder, this time a final note in the
Speaker 1: quiet symphony of the ritual. The box was once again
Speaker 1: a simple, unassuming object, its treasures hidden safely within. He
Speaker 1: held the box in his lap for a moment longer,
Speaker 1: feeling its light contained weight. The sense of peace remained
Speaker 1: a quiet hum in the center of his being. Finally,
Speaker 1: he rose from the chair, the cushion sighing softly as
Speaker 1: his weight was lifted. He walked back to the bookshelf,
Speaker 1: his steps feeling measured in light. He slid the pine
Speaker 1: box back into its designated space, between the last book
Speaker 1: and the wall of the shell. It looked as if
Speaker 1: it had never moved. It was a secret keeper, a
Speaker 1: holder of quiet moments. Mark stood before the shelf for
Speaker 1: a second, his hand resting on the spine of a
Speaker 1: nearby book. The cottage was silent, the light was soft,
Speaker 1: and a profound sense of stillness had settled not just
Speaker 1: in the room but within him as well. The day
Speaker 1: could continue on its gentle course. You remember m M anything?
Speaker 1: Do you