Things fall.
They fall from tables.
They fall from hands.
They fall from places they were not meant to leave yet.
Before Pebble, falling things were serious.
They meant carelessness.
They meant fault.
Then Pebble arrived.
Pebble moves through the world as if gravity is a suggestion.
She bumps into edges.
She tests surfaces.
She treats stillness as temporary.
Things began to fall wherever she went.
A cup tipped.
A stack shifted.
Something rolled when it should not have.
People looked for reasons.
Pebble was always there.
So they said, “Pebble must have done it.”
Pebble accepted this immediately.
She did not apologize.
She did not defend herself.
She did not slow down.
She simply continued existing at full speed.
Soon, everything that fell belonged to her.
A book slipping from a shelf.
A plate breaking in the sink.
A picture frame leaning too far.
Pebble, people said, gently now.
Mohg watched all of this without comment.
He did not correct the story.
He did not insist on accuracy.
He sat beside the mess and made room for what remained.
And slowly, something changed.
If Pebble caused it,
then no one else had to mean it.
Falling stopped being accusation.
It became occurrence.
Things fell.
People picked them up.
Life went on.
No one was in trouble anymore.
