On their final morning in the village, just before they left, Kutan’s mother placed a dark green, round stone in his hand.


    “This will protect you where we’re going,” she said, but her voice trembled, betraying the lie beneath her words.


    Kutan clutched the stone tightly.


    They walked for days, leaving behind the only home he’d ever known. As the familiar sights disappeared, a heavy silence descended, and the cold seeped into their bones.


    Each day, the villagers grew quieter. The laughter that had once filled their evenings was gone, replaced by an uneasy hush. Their steps slowed, their breaths became shallow, and Kutan felt the weight of the stone in his pocket grow heavier with every mile.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Finally, they stopped in a shadowed valley between two barren hills.


    Kutan’s mother leaned close, her breath warm against his ear. “This is the place,” she whispered.


    Kutan didn’t hesitate. He hurled the stone into the depths of the valley, where it struck the ground with a resounding echo that seemed to ripple through the earth.


    The tribe settled there, building their new village in the shadow of the hills. But the echo of the stone’s fall never truly faded.


    It lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of the home they had lost. And for the rest of his life, Kutan couldn’t escape the feeling that the stone had cursed them, that it had rooted them in the wrong place.


    When he died, alone and weary, Kutan swore he could still hear it—the sound of the stone, whispering in the dark.