The Paving Stone At The Door
Theo had always been able to hear what stones remembered.
It was not a loud kind of hearing. Stones did not shout. They hummed, the way an old radio hums in a quiet room. If you sat very still on a stone for a long time, you could pick up — Theo had no other word for it — the *layer* of what the stone had heard.
The paving stone at the door of St Anna's Church was Theo's favourite. It was older than the village. It had been there when the village was a hut. Every wedding had been carried over it. Every funeral. Every christening, in arms. The stone hummed with the names of dozens of people, names from many centuries, names that nobody else in the village now remembered.
Theo had been listening to St Anna's stones since he was seven. He knew about the chapel stone in the side wall, which had been part of an older chapel that fell down. He knew about the hearthstone in the rectory, which had been part of a Roman bath. He knew about the small stones in the graveyard wall, each of which had been carried in by a different villager, two hundred years ago, when the wall was first built.
Theo did not tell anyone he could hear stones.
Then, one morning in October, the diocese announced that St Anna's Church was going to be demolished.
The roof was failing. The repairs were too expensive. A new church would be built two villages over, where there were more people. The stones of St