Ago—was it years or centuries or eons, perhaps only the earth knew that—there was a cave. It was nothing spectacular, not large and sprawling nor uniquely small. It was adequate and as time sped forward there was much use in its stone stronghold. Until the age of thunderstorms, when lightning bolts struck it relentless until it fractured weak.
The remnants were but rubble. Except the entrance, an arch splintered into fragments—one key stone rested at the top, pressed on either side by the dark gray stone siblings that had once been its own self, jagged and littered with white scars was near luminous—stood firm. Even the earthquake did not unseat the foundation of an immovable family.
Wind and rain, time’s rough weathered hands, do not erode the strength. It outlasts, perseveres. All due to a keystone that binds the remnants together; a mere rock that will not fall.