I sat carefree in a café. Far away from my beloved city of Athens. I was enjoying a cup of coffee, but the little table wobbled badly.

I noticed that someone had placed a small stone beneath the short leg, yet the stone itself — proudly sculpted by pure rushing river waters — refused to support the table. With contemptuous display, it kept slipping away and the table kept swaying, almost spilling my coffee.

I called the waiter for help, and he willingly fixed the problem.

The little stone remained off to the side, delighting in its beauty, polished by clear and impetuous waters. I admired that tiny stone, which fit easily within my palm, and I rejoiced that it would not stoop to serve in a role so unworthy and alien to its nature.

I even took it as an invitation to myself: the wandering little craftsman.

Reverently, I took it into my hands, and after studying its face and every delicate detail, I drew lines upon it to reveal what it whispered to me:

A gentle sleep and a sweet longing for home.