The rock sits in the middle of the garden, as it always has and always will. Such is the nature of things. Smoothly raked paths circle out and around it, but they do not change the rock, for it is inviolate. A thousand thousand generations will pass it by; the rock was there before the maestro, and it will be there long after she is gone. What secrets it harbors are a mystery that shall never be solved, not by a philosopher nor a scientist.