geode: n. (Concretionary stone containing) cavity lined with crystals or other mineral matter.

She's like a stone. A rock. Hard and cold, rough to the touch. Then one day you realize that pieces are crumbling away. She smooths out, she shines. A gem. Still cool, but smooth, almost... soft. And she sparkles and shines, and draws the attention of all kinds of evil and good.

But... yet more years pass, and her surface becomes dull. No. Not dull... thin. She's worn down; again. She no longer shines, she's no longer smooth. And you wait for the next miraculous breakthrough, the next amazing discovery of her. And... nothing.

Air. Emptiness. And you ache, because you wore her down. Because without you, she was stone. She was cold and hard and rough and everything everyone avoids. Then with you, she became smooth, and you polished her, and taught her, and she was everything everyone wants. But that wasn't enough for you; it never is. You wore her down further, because you could sense that she had something else inside.

But your senses aren't always right, and now she's gone, she's dead; still walking. Empty. A shell, but not. A space. A hole. Surrounded on all sides, stone and gem and everything she was. But inside there's... nothing.

She's gone.

Was she ever really there?

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