THE THRONE REPORT — every throne, every rumor, every week.
Down by the mill stream, where the water runs quick over smooth stones, sits a low throne of grey rock with moss softening its arms. The miller says it has been there longer than the mill, which is saying something, since the mill is older than anyone's grandfather.
The Throne Report went to sit a while this week. The rules, as ever: sit where you like, stay as long as you like, claim nothing. The water did most of the talking — a low, steady chatter over the stones — and the throne, warmed by a patch of afternoon sun, was a comfortable place to listen from.
A heron fished nearby, entirely unbothered. A dragonfly inspected the Report twice. Nobody argued about the throne, nobody measured it, and nobody tried to take it anywhere, which is exactly how a throne beside a stream ought to be treated.
The Report's verdict: bring a coat, bring a friend, and let the stream talk.
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