Short story, need some critique please

Humanity, though constantly changing, remains unnerved by obscurities. That was one of the most difficult lessons the young man had to learn. He had never been too keen to custom. He was a secular boy who spent his days observing what was in front of him and how interactions relied upon each other. He took mental notes of all activity in his surroundings, not for a definition, for mere study. He did not believe in any God, though he did believe in a set of unspoken guidelines of this universe and the study of such guidelines in all regards. Education was his religion and education alone had gotten him thus far in his small Christian town. Not a soul he had encountered could perceive him entirely. His mama always swore he was conceived on another planet and then implanted in her uterus. No way a human so strange could come from her DNA, she used to say. And if his own mother says it, well you know it must be true.

He spent his days in solace study and his nights with his face buried in a book. At daybreak every Sunday the boy would set out empty handed and on foot into nearby woods. No one knew where he went, nor what he did when he got there. Nobody from the town troubled to ask. I suppose speculations were far more intriguing than any actual truth. He would reappear, again by foot, a half hour before sunset. His face shining a meaningful smile. The town watched these events with distrust, ignorant to a small, innocent stone stashed safely in the boy’s palm. Taken from a river within the overgrown forage, the stone held no significance in itself; however, it gave the boys life direction and his journey purpose.

He never felt more present than he did walking through that forest, by himself, with that stone in his hand. In certain instances, the town was very detailed in making him feel unwelcomed. Homestead had become a complicatedly questionable concept. Nature was what made things tolerable. There he had learned where he was and that is how it was. It just was.

Before resting his eyes on Sunday nights, the young man would kneel in front of a medium sized chest resting on his closet floor. There was a heavy lock on the chest and quilts for winter laying atop, acting as inconspicuous camouflage.

Carefully he would remove the quilts and the lock. Then with a ritualistic train of thought, he would place the stone inside, secure it, and go to sleep. As he laid in bed he closed his eyes and pictured the amount of stones filling up that chest. He knew that when it was full, he would be gone.