You come across a basket weaved from brambles upon the mossy rock, the handle has no cover, and whoever or whatever left it here did so recently, if the viscous -yet still wet- almost black liquid dripping from it was any indication. The shifting void where the sky should be writhes in discomfort.
The other rocks open their eyes to watch what happens next on their sibling's back, eyelids cracking and rolling eyeballs grinding stone upon stone.
The contents of the thorny basket -an infant, yet millenia have passed like comets since their birth- wail at the sound of the spectator's slow movements. They do not feel the red spilling from their delicate skin, as the stone they are on does not feel the dripping and leaking, but for a very different reason.
The almost black ooze dries suddenly, shrinking and cracking and growing darker, ever darker until it is indiscernable from where the sky should be.
The basket cracks around the dried sludge and the infant falls from the rock, but not to the ground, no, they stop a few iches above the dark mud, and all the years they have endured come crashing down until they are a child, a teen, an adult, elderly, withering and dying and withering more.
What is left of the once child is wizened and dry as their remains clatter to the floor.
