Eamon, king of Autumn, walked idly through Rosehill
cemetery, his shape barely visible in the light.
“I like the rabbits,” he said, passing by civil war
memorials, their soldiers’ names long vanished. “And the squirrels. All the trees are filled with chattering birds.
Back in the day, deer would wander through the dawn, climbing over the mortuary
cellars.” He passed by statues, obelisks, all the great grieving stones,
ignoring them. I thought he’d take me to
the necropolis, but he turned, going deeper into the remaining untouched forest. “Now
we have joggers and the occasional picnicker. “Look!” he smiled, “Geese!”
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