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The Ruin


I think about who must’ve lived here a hundred years ago.

This place has a history; I can smell it in the ruin. I smell the ashes from a fire stoked long ago. The scent of a young girl still clings to a rag doll, discarded the day she went off to marry—now just dust in a corner. I sniff it to see what I can learn.

Must’ve been the farrier, she married, I suppose. No one else had reason to come here so far from the village.

Our tree on the hill was just a seedling when she was alive. I wonder, does she still walk that hill? Or amble down the drive, just to hear the stream rush to meet the creek?

Does she accompany us on our walks under the full moon—just another shadow among so many? And will she walk with me still, when I too am long dead and gone?

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