In a remote field, far from any road or path, there lies an object whose origin has been forgotten. The locals speak of it rarely, not from fear, but because it has always been there, and thus, it has ceased to arouse curiosity. There
are no maps that mention it, no scholars who write of it, and yet, if you venture deep enough into the unmarked land, you will find it, half-buried and alone: the tusk.

The Sleeping Tusk is no ordinary relic of a forgotten age. It is neither bone nor stone, though both could be said of it. Those who have stumbled upon it do not speak of a mammoth or any creature tethered to this world, only the tusk,
as if it were an entity unto itself.

I met an old man once, a wanderer of the quiet sort, who had come across it in his youth. He spoke of the tusk without much emotion, as though he had accepted its place in the world. “It doesn’t do anything,” he had said, lighting
his pipe as the evening descended. “It just is. But you can’t help but feel something when you’re near it. Not fear, no—more like you’ve stumbled into something that should not be.”

I pressed him for details, of course. He was reluctant at first, but I persisted. He told me of the strange pull it had, like a forgotten memory at the back of the mind, urging you to return, even when you wish to forget it. “It’s
not the size of the thing,” he explained. “It’s the way it sits there, like it’s waiting. Waiting for what, I couldn’t tell you. But it knows more than I ever will.”

Over the years, others have reported feeling something similar—a sense that the tusk holds the weight of countless histories, yet none they could name. One man, a poet in his later years, once wrote of it. The lines were never published;
the manuscript disappeared shortly after his death.

There are no stories of what happens if you touch the tusk. No myths, no warnings, no epics of transformation or ruin. People simply do not touch it. Not out of fear, but because it feels wrong, as if to do so would disturb something
far older and more essential than they could comprehend. There is no voice whispering in the wind, no sense of being watched. There is only the quiet, and in that quiet, the faintest suggestion that you stand at the edge of something
immeasurable.

No records exist of when the tusk first appeared, though a historian from a nearby town once claimed to have found an account of it in a set of scrolls dating back centuries. The description was vague—no mention of an elephant, no
beast, no battle. Just the tusk, buried deep in the land. It seems that those who encounter it either forget it or become consumed by it, as though the tusk itself decides who will carry its weight and who will walk away, unaware
of the truth beneath their feet.

The old man, on his deathbed, is said to have uttered one final word, and only one: “Endless.” Whether it was the ramblings of a mind clouded by age, or the distilled essence of a lifetime of contemplation, no one can say. But I have
visited the place where the tusk sleeps, and I can tell you this: its silence speaks volumes, but only to those who know how to listen.

The Sleeping Tusk waits, as it always has, and perhaps always will. And while no one may touch it, while no one may know its origin or purpose, there is a certainty in its presence. It is there, always there

The field stretched before her, vast and silent except for the wind sweeping through the tall grass. At the horizon stood The Sleeping Tusk. It jutted from the earth like a monument forgotten by time, its surface cracked and weathered,
with vines clinging to it like ancient memories. There was no path leading to it, no signs that marked its presence, yet it had always been there. She had known it even before she saw it.

From the beginning, she had planned to destroy it.

As she approached, her steps were steady. There was no hesitation, no sense of wonder or fear. The tusk, looming ahead, felt both inevitable and unreal—a relic of something eternal, but unimportant. It held no mystery, no grand meaning
waiting to be discovered. It was simply there, a fixture of the universe like any other. And yet, in its cold indifference, it felt truer than anything else she had encountered.

She reached out and placed her hand on the tusk. It was colder than she expected, the chill sinking into her palm and winding up her arm like a slow, creeping shadow. For a moment, there was nothing. Then a faint hum—a vibration that
seemed to come not from the tusk, but from somewhere deep within herself. It was as though the world, for the first time, came into sharp focus. The wind, the grass, the cracked surface of the tusk—these things had always been there,
but now they were clear, present, and absolute.

There was no deeper meaning to find. This is all there is, she thought. She smiled. It felt like a joke only she could understand.

Without removing her hand from the tusk, she reached into her bag with her other hand and pulled out the sticks of dynamite. She had carried them for miles, for years, for her entire life, it seemed. The plan had always been there,
lingering at the edge of her thoughts, guiding her steps even when she hadn’t acknowledged it. Destroying the one thing in the universe that had ever felt real—that was the point. There was no hesitation as she placed the dynamite
at the base of the tusk, arranging it with careful precision, as if it were a final offering.

She stepped back, feeling the weight of the detonator in her hand. There was no thrill in the moment, no satisfaction. Just the same quiet understanding: this is all there is. Her thumb pressed the switch, and the dynamite erupted
in a violent roar.

The explosion tore through the field, shattering the tusk into fragments that flew through the air. Dust and debris rose, covering everything in a thick cloud, the sound echoing into the distance. When the dust settled, the tusk lay
in pieces, scattered across the ground. The vines that had once clung to it were torn and broken, lifeless.

She stood there for a moment, gazing at the destruction. The field was the same. The sky hung in its dull twilight, the wind moved through the grass. The universe, indifferent as always, remained unchanged. The one thing that had ever
felt true was gone, but nothing was different. She had known it all along.

With a small shrug, she turned and walked away. There was nothing else to do. The act, like the tusk itself, had been inevitable. And in the end, the joke had always been the same:

This is all there is.