[unfinished story]
This is a particular story.
This is a story of a girl, who felt the solitude of the deads. She often went to the cemetery just to talk with them, read stories or singing.
And often the dead ones were lighten up. She felt it and she knew it.
She found these gravestones so close to her.
Her white-browed image was the same colour as the stones.
Crests and tales were written on the statues, and she loved so much touching them, listening to them, taking part in that silent feast.
She was that burial place. Cold and marble.
But empty.
Dead, yet kept alive by a weak lip of flesh, a vague spun of bones.
And dreams.
Departed, chocked to death.
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