Once upon a time, there was a rock. It sat upon the ground a little ways from a bridge crossing a river. The bridge was well-traveled, as it was the only way to cross the river for miles. But this story is about the rock; the bridge and river are not important yet.

The rock was about the size of an apple with an oval shape. It was smooth with only a few ridges. Most likely, this was the fault of the river, eroding any part of it that stuck out. At some point, either the water level lowered and it was left behind or it was fished out.

It wasn’t visible from the road leading to the bridge, as it was nestled in a patch of grass. The grass grew from the soil, around it and below it, growing everywhere as weeds often did.

Now you may ask, “What makes this rock so special?” The answer is simple. It is obvious from the title, yet so many of you will come here thinking, ‘There must be something more to this,’ or ‘That’s just a troll title.” The reality is that this is a story about a rock. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s just a rock; there’s nothing special about it.