The Pebble

It sat on the side of the road — quiet, unnoticed, unmoved.

A small pebble, no larger than a child's thumb, scuffed and dulled by years of weather and wheels.

People passed it every day.

Cars rumbled by without pause.

Shoes stepped over it, sometimes on it, never stopping to wonder.

But the pebble?

It had a past.

Once, it was part of a mighty mountain, kissed by the sun and carved by the hands of time.

It stood tall while empires fell, watched eagles soar, and storms roar.

When the winds screamed and the earth cracked, the pebble held fast—until the day the mountain let go.

Torn from its place, it tumbled.

It fell, broke, and shattered.

From cliff to crag, from stone to shard, until it came to rest by the roadside — exiled, forgotten.

But not defeated.

Because what the world sees as small, the pebble knows is strong.

Every chip on its surface is a badge.

Every scratch, a story.

It doesn't need to shine to have worth. It doesn't need to move to have meaning.

It endures.

That is its power.

It listens when no one speaks.

It witnesses when no one looks.

It exists, fiercely and fully, without permission.

And one day, when the rains come hard and the floodwaters rise,

When the road crumbles and the soil gives way,

that little pebble — steady, stubborn, silent — will hold the ground firm beneath a child’s step,

Keep a wheel from slipping,

make all the difference.

So laugh at the pebble if you must.

Ignore it if you will…

But know this:

Even the smallest thing can carry the strength of mountains.

Even the forgotten can be unshakable.

Even the smallest soul can hold up the world.