The End of Everything
It hardly qualified as a graveyard. Nineteen graves in a single row, no fence, no road, no flowers. The foliage grew unchecked. Raw boulders from the nearby stream served as tombstones. They didn’t need markings, for each grave contained the same person.
Me.
A sheen of fresh rain coated every mossy branch and shrub. Fog hung low against the leaf-strewn earth.
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