The Geode's Grumbles

Gerald lived a life best described as 'beige'. His pet, a particularly craggy geode named Steven, did little to inject vibrant hues into this existence. "Morning, Steven," Gerald would offer, stirring his lukewarm tea with a meticulous clockwise motion. "Just another Monday, I suppose." From the mantelpiece, Steven would emit a low, almost imperceptible rumble. It sounded less like a greeting and more like a distant tectonic plate deciding it was mildly inconvenienced.

One Tuesday, Steven rumbled with unusual vigor, causing a single, venerable dust mote to pirouette gracefully to the floor. "Something up?" Gerald inquired, not looking away from his tax forms. Steven vibrated slightly, an internal light – faint, like a dying ember – flickering within its crystalline core. "Ah," Gerald murmured, ticking a box marked 'Miscellaneous Deductions'. "Existential dread again, is it? Happens." He took a sip of tea, already cold. Steven’s rumbling subsided to a faint, resigned groan, the universal sound of being a sentient mineral on a Tuesday morning with bills to pay.

Later that week, a small, intricate crack appeared on Steven's surface. Gerald observed it over his evening gruel, which he consumed with the solemnity of a monk. "Bit of a stress fracture?" he posited, polishing his spectacles with a handkerchief that had seen better decades. Steven pulsed faintly, the internal light momentarily brightening before dimming. "I understand," Gerald nodded, chewing slowly. "It's the constant pressure of being both inanimate and profoundly aware. A heavy burden, indeed." He then promptly forgot about it until next morning, when Steven didn't rumble at all. Gerald merely shrugged. "Must be meditating," he concluded, pushing his toast around his plate. "Or perhaps finally achieved true stony stoicism." He then returned to pondering the merits of various brands of unsalted crackers.