Dante walked the edge of Aldergrove at first light, hooves quiet on the damp ground. He carried no tools, no lumber, no plan on paper. He carried only the picture in his head: a workshop where makers would lay objects down and turn them until new shapes appeared. For that, he needed one thing first. A flat surface. Somewhere broad and steady enough to hold a rock and the seventeen ideas hiding inside it. He scanned the clearing ahead and slowed his step. There it stood. A polished stone slab on two thick legs, tall enough to work at without stooping. Dante pulled a small mossy rock from his satchel and set it gently on the surface. He turned it once. He saw a face. He turned it again. He saw a map. Then the rock moved on its own. A small figure uncurled from beneath the slab and shoved the stone off the edge. "Mine," the squatter said, and crossed thin arms. Dante did not argue. He knelt, picked up the rock, and placed it back on the table. "Then share it," he said. The squatter blinked at the rock, tilted their head, and slowly sat down on the other side. They did not leave. But they did not push the rock off again.