Barney Senior stepped toward the battlement, his gaze distant. He stood there, unmoving, so Jack, unsure what else to do, walked over and joined him. They stood together in silence for a while, the breeze tugging at their sleeves.

  Finally, Senior spoke. “The stone’s voice… Most people think building is just stacking rocks. But real stonework starts with listening.”

  He nudged the wall beneath their feet with the toe of his boot. “Every stone has a meaning. Basalt like this? It means depth. Granite from the mountains? Strength. Limestone?” He gestured to the massive wall protecting the human world. “That means an ancient sea.”

  He turned to look at Jack, eyes steady beneath the shadow of his bushy gray brows. “The land speaks, if you know how to listen. Every stone has a story. And if you build with it right, that story becomes part of what you’re making.”

  Jack hesitated. He could sense there was something deeper here, but for now, it all felt a little abstract.

  “I’m not sure I follow, sir.”

  Senior smiled, as if he’d expected nothing else. He went on without missing a beat.

  “Any construction begins with choices. Where you build. How the land holds weight. You have to listen to the ground. Under the dirt and clay, you’ll find rock. What kind?”

  Jack tried to follow. “Are you talking about a geological survey?”

  Senior shook his head. “It’s not something so heartless, no. When you’re building, you have to listen to the stone. Find what thrives. Ask yourself: Why is this rock here? Why does it survive in this place?”

  Jack didn’t answer. He looked down instead, turning a rough chunk of basalt over in his hand. Was this just a metaphor? Or was Senior hinting at some future masonry skill?

  “I really don’t understand.”

  Senior chuckled. “Maybe one day it’ll make more sense. For now, just remember.”

  He tapped the wall beside him once more, then stepped back and waved the thought away.

  “Alright. Let’s talk about what we’re actually using. Show me one of the stones you brought.”

  Jack opened his inventory, selected a basalt stone, and summoned it. A dull weight settled into his palm as the stone took shape. He passed it over.

  Senior turned it over, testing its heft, brushing dust off one side. “Basalt. Comes up in volcanic land like this. Breaks clean, stacks tight, holds heat without complaint. Before we can start laying it, we need to discuss shapes.”

  He walked over to a pile of discarded rubble and sifted through it until he found another stone. He returned with both and held them up for Jack to see.

  One was low and wide, with blunt, squared edges. The other was longer and curved slightly along one side, like a crescent moon.

  “When it’s squat like this,” he said, lifting the first, “it’s perfect for higher layers. Sits easy, spreads weight, locks in tight.”

  Then he lifted the second. “Now this one? Odd shape. Won’t sit flush unless you’re careful. But that doesn’t make it useless. Nestle it between two sturdy stones near the bottom, pin it in right, and it’ll hold just fine.”

  “Squat ones up high. Weird ones go low, locked in.”

  “Exactly. Think of stone-laying as a puzzle. Only the pieces don’t come pre-cut. You have to learn to see the fit.”

  He met Jack’s eye. “There’s no such thing as a useless stone. Some just need a little help finding their place.” Then, with a wink, he added, “Just like people.”

  Jack swallowed hard. Was he talking about him?

  A stone others saw as useless, but had a use. Jack had spent years drifting, never quite fitting anywhere. But now he had a place. With Amari and the others. With his parents. It was probably just a coincidence. But still… the words struck a chord.

  “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got. Start the base, make a tight square. Mortar’s there. You’ve got the stone and the trowel. Show me what you can do.”

  Jack knelt beside the old chimney base.

  Before reaching for the mortar, he pulled a few fresh basalt blocks from his inventory. He’d learned his lesson from all the time he’d wasted firing cylinders that didn’t actually fit the pot bot. It made more sense to experiment with the stones first before committing anything to place and risking wasting his time.

  He tested them, shifting each one into the outline of the old square, matching edges and angles until it fit together.

  Behind him, Senior grunted softly.

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  Jack glanced over his shoulder. “Something wrong?”

  “On the contrary.” The old man folded his arms. “Most folks would’ve started slapping down mortar the second I told them to start. But you’re testing the fit first. You’re planning.” He gave a small nod. “You’re patient. You think things through. Good qualities in a mason.”

  Jack blinked. “Patient?”

  Senior arched a brow. “Don’t you know the word?”

  “No, it’s just…” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “No one’s ever said I was patient before. Or… that I think things through. It just felt strange to hear that.”

  “Well,” Senior said, “they were wrong.”

  Were they, though?

  Jack paused, brushing his fingers across the surface of a stone. The truth was he’d been impatient all his life. He lost count of how many times his parents told him that he acted without thinking or that he rushed through everything. But after learning pottery and studying the Before from Professor Masse, he’d started to slow down.

  Still, part of him wanted this tutorial to end quickly. He had things to do, money to earn, and people waiting on him. That restlessness didn’t feel like patience. Did patient people even feel like that?

  He turned back to the stones. He placed them carefully, checking the layout one last time. Once he was confident in the fit, he reached for the mortar.

  “STOP!”

  Jack flinched, yanking his hand back, heart racing. “W-what?”

  Senior crouched beside him, stabbing a thick finger at the base of the wall. “Look at this.” He rocked one of the blocks. “See how it is unstable? The base isn’t level.” He lifted the stone and pointed at the barnacle-like residues. “Old mortar. You can’t build on this. Scrape it clean first.”

  Jack felt his face grow warm. “Oh. Right.”

  “Use the trowel. Bare stone, then mortar. It’s not complicated.”

  Jack got to work, scraping the old chimney base. The crusted mortar came away like gray sand. He adjusted the stones again. This time, the fit felt better. More confident.

  Just as he reached for the mortar again—

  “STOP!”

  “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What now?” he said, trying not to let his eye twitch.

  Senior didn’t even flinch. “Look at all this dust. Mortar won’t bond if the surface is dirty. You’ve got to clean it. It’s still all dirty from the old mortar you scraped. Here. Use this.”

  He handed over a stiff-bristled brush.

  Down below, from somewhere near the scaffolding, Jack heard Junior burst into laughter.

  Of course, he was listening. Probably knew this whole routine by heart. Jack could just imagine him, grinning up at the wall, watching the classic “Dad teaches newbie” performance unfold, and enjoying every second of it.

  Senior’s teaching method seemed to involve letting him mess up, barking at him, then explaining what he did wrong.

  Sighing, Jack started brushing.

  “Good! Now you’re set,” the old man said, sounding almost cheerful.

  The praise, simple as it was, gave Jack a boost of confidence. He reached for the mortar, scooped a modest layer with the trowel, and spread it carefully across the prepared base. This was the moment—the first real stone. He held his breath and lowered it into place, pressing it gently with both hands. Satisfied, he sat back and glanced at Senior, who remained silent, his eyes focused and watchful.

  Jack moved on to the second stone. He repeated the motion, pressing a little harder this time to make sure it held. Mortar squeezed out from the edges.

  Senior grunted.

  Jack looked up, already bracing. “What now?”

  The old man stepped in and crouched beside the stone. “It’s low,” he said, tapping the uneven edge. “You pressed too hard. The mortar’s too thin on one side—it’s tilting the whole stone.”

  Jack leaned in. Now that it was pointed out, he could see it—the far corner sloped just enough to throw off the line.

  “Mortar’s not there to force a stone to fit,” Senior continued. “It’s there to bed the match. Keep the layer even. No thinner than your little finger. Got it?”

  Jack nodded. “Finger-width. Even.”

  “Exactly.” Senior stood. “And remember, listen to the stone. It doesn’t like to be forced. Let it settle. A good mason nudges, doesn’t shove.”

  Jack took a breath, removed the second stone, and added more mortar with a steadier hand. This time, he let the stone’s weight do most of the work. He eased it into place slowly, nudging it until it felt solid and level.

  He reached for the third stone, repeated the process, and was just finishing when—

  “STOP!”

  Jack winced. Not again. He looked up as Senior approached.

  “Take a look at what you’ve done so far,” the old man said. “Anything stand out?”

  Jack examined the three stones. They looked fine. “Not really,” he said, unsure.

  Senior raised a brow but didn’t say anything. Instead, he pulled a small spool of twine from his belt and knelt at one end of the chimney base. He drove a short metal spike into one of the gaps between overlapping stone on the roof, and tied the twine to it. He then stretched the line across the square and anchored it at the far side.

  Jack watched as the twine snapped taut.

  “There,” Senior said. “Now look again.”

  Jack leaned over. The stone he’d just placed was slightly off. Not dramatically, but its edge leaned just a bit too far inward, falling out of line with the others.

  “It’s not straight,” he admitted.

  “Well answered,” Senior replied. He tapped the twine. “This is your best friend when laying stone. Use the line to keep each course true. Don’t trust your eye alone—trust the line.”

  Jack nodded. He lifted the third stone, reapplied the mortar, and this time set the stone with slow, careful attention. He adjusted it until the outer edge sat just beneath the guide string.

  Senior gave a single nod. “Better. Keep that up.”

  Jack kept working. He checked the mortar, watched the guide line, and adjusted for fit. Every so often, he glanced at Senior, half-expecting a grunt or correction, but the old man said nothing. He just stood there, arms folded, his gaze sharp but unreadable.

  No barked orders. No sudden “Stop!” Just silence. It felt… good. Jack smiled quietly to himself. Looks like I’m getting the hang of this.

  Before long, he had a square outline built from freshly mortared basalt. Once a stone sat undisturbed for a few seconds, a small progress bar appeared above it. When it filled, the stone shifted slightly and took on a firmer hue, signaling it had set.

  The chimney was ready for a second row.

  Jack got started, placing each new stone on top of the first layer with deliberate care. He spread the mortar evenly, checked his depth, eyed the twine. He was halfway through the row when Senior called out.

  “STOP!”

  Jack paused, trowel in hand. “What did I do now, Senior?”

  Senior stepped forward, nodding toward the section Jack had just laid. “Take another look at that last stone you laid. Anything strike you?”

  Jack studied the row. The stones were straight. Level. The mortar was clean.

  “They look fine to me.”

  “They are,” Senior agreed, “individually. But look at the seams.”

  Jack frowned and leaned closer. Each stone in the second row sat directly above one in the base. The seams were perfectly aligned.

  “You mean how they’re stacked right over the ones below? Is that bad?”

  Senior didn’t answer. Instead he walked over to the pile of rubble on the corner of the roof.