Winny the good Witch and the Rockbiter

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Winny sensed it long before its form appeared before her door, not as a sound, but as a shift in the balance of her small house, as if something heavy, ancient, and yet searching were approaching. The glasses on the shelves began to vibrate softly, barely audible, more like a whisper of glass, warning or greeting one another, and even the flame of her candle dipped for a moment, as if it had held its breath. When there was finally a knock at the door, it wasn't a clear sound, but a dull, cautious touch, as if someone who knew the world of stone wasn't sure how to ask wood for entry. Winny placed her hand on the handle, didn't hesitate, and opened the door. Before her stood the Rockbiter. It was larger than she had imagined, but not threatening. His body was made of rough, cracked rock, crisscrossed by fine fissures where moss grew and small, delicate blossoms shone, as if they had decided to give him life where he himself no longer felt any. With every movement, tiny particles of stone detached themselves from him, fell to the ground, and crumbled in mid-air into fine dust that slowly disappeared in the warm light of their house. "You've come a long way," Winny said calmly, as if this were not a surprise but an answer to something she had long expected, and she stepped aside. The rockbiter inclined his head slightly and entered, cautiously, almost reverently, as if afraid of breaking the space that so easily supported him. His steps were heavy, yet they didn't sound loud, more like a slow recollection of movement. "I'm looking for my family," he said finally, his voice deep and fragile, as if it were made of many layers that no longer quite belonged together. Winny closed the door behind him and looked at him, not scrutinizingly, but patiently, as if giving him time to hear himself. "And you think I can help you?" she asked softly. The rockbiter was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. "You keep things that are lost," he replied, and there was no hope in his words, but a cautious possibility. Winny went to one of the shelves, ran her fingers over the jars until she selected one that shimmered with a warm, golden light. She placed it carefully on the table between them. "Not everything that is lost is gone," she said calmly, as she removed the lid. A soft glow escaped the jar and spread through the room, not harsh, but gentle, like a breath of memory. Shapes began to appear in the air, fleeting yet clear enough to be recognized: mountain ranges, ancient stone paths, colossal rock formations leaning against each other like living beings, as if supporting one another. The Rockbiter approached, slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid that any movement might shatter the images. "I don't remember anymore," he said softly, and for the first time, there was something in his voice that sounded like loss.