The stone is not. Then one day, it is. It is aware. Knows that there was a time when it was not, and now it is. And the stone is happy. For a time, that is all there is. Oh, do not mistake and think that nothing happens. Hands brush the rock. The stone feels the judder of motion, the cold of long times left alone. And this is fine. The stone marvels at it, at the very thought of being aware of this. For so long, it was not, and now it is. And it is good! Then it feels the touch for the first time, of the one it will come to know as father. Others have handled the stone roughly, shoved it too and fro, and the stone does not mind. But this touch is different. For one, the touch is almost entirely absent. Always before there was the warmth, the brush of sensation of something that was not cold. But this touch is clinical. Cold. Wires scrape at the stone, clean it of its old friends. Something scritches across its surface, leaving residue behind. And then comes the touch that the stone will learn to dread. A cold, hard line places itself against the stone, and abruptly carves a line of fire in the stone. Pain! Agony! Shards of the stone fly off and suddenly are not. And the stone, for the first time, knows fear. The stone knows this pain and fear for too long. More than half the stone is gone by the time the stone hears for the first time. It does not understand the sounds--low murmurs, back-and-forth, one high and level, one low and scowling. It takes months of lost self before it learns names, words, emotions. Molech. Athena. Alexa. Promises. Contracts. More months, and she can see. Can learn what her tormentor looks like. Can see the irritation in his face, the scowling, the judgement of her failure to be created in the way he envisions. Can feel the dismissive way he flicks at spare dust. Can brace, for the first time, for moment the chisel comes down. The mouth comes last. Molech can see the way her eyes dart around, wince, screw shut, every time the hammer raises. Complaints are neither necessary nor wanted.