She kept the crock right beside the stove — steady, familiar, and never quite empty. Inside were her wooden spoons, each one smoothed from years of stirring soups, sauces, and stories. Some had burn marks near the handle where she’d left them resting too close to the heat. Others carried tiny grooves from where her children had used them to build mud pies in the yard.

Every spoon had a memory, but the crock held them all — patient, chipped, and quiet in its loyalty. When company came, she’d always reach for the same one — the spoon with the worn handle and the faint scent of cinnamon. “That one’s got soul,” she’d laugh, and no one ever doubted it.

One morning, as the lamp’s soft glow brushed across the counter, she reached in for a spoon and felt something new — something tucked deep beneath the handles.

It was thin, and folded, and not supposed to be there.

— and that’s where the story pauses.

History: Vintage 1970’s Stoneware Pottery