U
Utilikelt
Guest
One year has passed. A most untimely end has circled once around the sun, and ended up in roughly the same place, although now a mere several million kilometers further around the galaxy. In a small, insignifigant plot of passed Irish a breeze stirs, blowing a few green leaves around on the trees, and a few weak ones off. A faint aroma of bog and fertilizer drifts across the cemetary as the view begins to shift from the wrought-iron entrance gate. Mouldy, worn headstones are passed by as we are taken to the newer areas, and the green of ivy on the richer stones, and moss on the poorer ones leads to a more uniform gray of granite, with interspersed specks of white and black marble. And then we stop.
The single stone that stands before us is also older by one trip around hte nearest star. The lettering is still quite sharp, and gives us the identity of the interred beneath our feet. The breeze picks up once again, drifting a few leaves across the plot. Drifting leaves in August? Odd...
And just as sudden as it started, the light wind come to a dead calm. The oak leaves settle, but one has left itself in a strange and ominous position. Where the date of death is chiseled in the granite, the leaf has landed, propped against the stone. If you read the writing now, it would appear as if someone hadn't died at all...
The single stone that stands before us is also older by one trip around hte nearest star. The lettering is still quite sharp, and gives us the identity of the interred beneath our feet. The breeze picks up once again, drifting a few leaves across the plot. Drifting leaves in August? Odd...
And just as sudden as it started, the light wind come to a dead calm. The oak leaves settle, but one has left itself in a strange and ominous position. Where the date of death is chiseled in the granite, the leaf has landed, propped against the stone. If you read the writing now, it would appear as if someone hadn't died at all...