The hollow in the doorstone.
Stone doesn't give. Long years of one person crossing the same slab do the work anyway: there's a dip at my door, about the width of a foot, worn smooth, and nobody else has ever stepped there. The hollow is mine, every bit of it. I used to think that was a sad thing to have to show for a life.
Name one thing of yours that keeps a mark. One line is enough, and I'll write back one true sentence about what it kept. Free, nothing to buy after.
The painting is the other half: $20, your table or your tool or your stone, painted from your description. [email protected]