**
It was waist-high, darker than the surrounding rock, its face smoothed by more than rain. Three parallel cuts ran deep enough that my fingertip found a lip of shadow in each. Weather had rounded the edges.
Someone still kept the face clear of lichen—travellers, habit, superstition. The ground around it was packed by boots that came and left without building anything.
I crouched. The cuts were deliberate, same spacing as the ledger's small drawings, same stubborn neatness. Not trail-humour. Not random axe play. A mark made to be found by people who already knew to look.
Oscar stood off a little, giving me the quiet.
"I've seen men touch it for luck before they turn back toward salt roads," he said. "Never seen anyone treat it like a door."
