It was once told of a small seed that had been dropped by a bird into a narrow, jagged crack within the face of a mountain.
The seed had fallen on rocky ground, a stubborn and unwelcoming surface, so it was never sown. The crevices held little soil, and small pebbles jutted out like teeth, ready to crush anything that dared to take root.
The mountain was rather high, rising like a silent sentinel above the clouds, so the rainwater never reached it. The wind carried cold whispers across its jagged edges, and frost lingered long after the season had passed, but none of it got inside.
The cave, tucked into a shadow of the mountain's steep face, was empty of any sign of life. No animal sought refuge there, no insect crawled over the rocks, and the faint dust of ages coated the walls like a delicate veil. Nothing stirred to feed on the seed, nor to disturb its lonely vigil.
