A lot of birds fly around the place where I live. They lose feathers. Whenever I find one, I wonder where it has been, what it has seen.
The stones looked perfectly placed. I’ve no doubt they were. But no identifiers were left behind so we could pretend the gods had set them down just right.
The world around us holds so much knowledge. This trash can sits here year after year. What memories do such things hold? After all, every “inert, inanimate” object is made up of molecules that once were part of something alive.