Greg nodded solemnly and placed a rock on the table. "This is a Wound Stone. We shall now pass it clockwise, or widdershins if your trauma has seasonal depression."
He looked around the brunch wreckage with all the gravitas of a man whose spirit animal had once been a disappointed therapist. "Speak your truth. Hold the stone. Release what no longer serves you. And please—keep all metaphors under five syllables."
Adelle picked it up first, cradling it like a slightly judgmental avocado. "I once dated a guy who ghosted me mid-Tarot spread," she said. "I asked about our future, and he vanished before the third card." She passed it on.
Ambrose accepted the stone and wept a single, strategic tear. "My ex told me she loved me, then ran off with a water nymph named Carl. He made her chamomile scones with ancient lake water. I cannot compete with glacial minerals."
