Life looked a lot cruder in the harsh light of the morning, even though the festival performances continued through the day, and the city was bathed in the unmistakable humid scent of spring.

I met my new friend in the lobby and we walked through the narrow streets, sometimes so narrow a person could barely pass through, braving the rain and listening to the music in silence, like an understanding between us, and ended up huddled at the cafe on the pier, hungry and tired, looking forward to a toasty sandwich and a hot cup of coffee.

“So, you’re not going to ask?” she said, eventually.

“I wouldn’t know what,” I replied, still awkward about hijacking a perfect stranger’s time to satisfy my curiosity.

“What do you know about the stones?”

I started reciting the historical and anthropological data and the scientific opinions regarding the details of the sites, and she stopped me with a curt hand gesture.

“No. Not that. What did the stones tell you when you were there?”

I stopped, not knowing how to respond to that, hesitant to share my intimacy with the untold story of this place with someone I’d just met, but who, obviously, could read it on my face like in a book. I answered, eventually.

“How did you know?”

“It’s written all over you, girl. Do you speak to the Old?”

“The Old? What is that?”