The next morning Dian put a piece of wood on the table.
Not a stone. A piece of wood, roughly the size of his forearm, smooth on one side and rough on the other where it had been split rather than cut. Xuan looked at it, then at the four stones still lined up at the edge of the table, then back at the wood.
"Wood," Xuan said.
"Correct," Dian said.
"Different from stone."
"Also correct. Sit with it."
Xuan sat with it.
The difference was immediate and more significant than he'd expected. Stone had a quality of stillness to it, something that had been the same for a very long time and was going to keep being the same, layers of frequency that felt dense and settled and patient. Wood was none of that.
