Autumn came and leaves began to fall. They covered everything and the trees became skeletons of their former selves. Ironically, despite being skeletons, the only things to die were the plants and weeds below, smothered by the leaves. The rock received a covering of weeds as well. Then again, it wasn't as bad as the other plants as it didn't require sunlight to survive and there were a few gaps to see through.

Winter changed that and blustered through the land, leaving behind only white. Except, for the rock, sealed up in layers of leaves and snow, all it saw was black. Unusually, it was somewhat warm underneath the seasonal debris. They acted like a blanket, insulating the rock from both the temperature and the world. And then silence, with only the thoughts of an unreliable narrator to pass the time.

How can the rock see when it is inanimate? Why should a few leaves obscure the vision when there wasn't any vision in the first place? In reality, it was I, the narrator, who sees. Yet, I was limited. The rock is my limit. I could see, feel, hear, smell, and even taste anything within the boundaries of the rock as if it was a living thing.

Perhaps, I am the rock. My insistence on being a narrator and separate from the rock may be just a coping method. This is all just an out of body experience simply because I cannot accept my own existence. After all, if I'm just a rock, then what's the point of existing. Therefore, I am a narrator. A third-person, limited narrator. Something more than just a rock.