Back Story

Death does not take my memory. I remember that day. The chaos. The fire. It has been so long. People come to clean our remains. They are only children, or have we been gone for that long? They do not know what happened here. They do not know how we were once full of life. We ran and we lived and we were full of life.

Oh how we loved life. I remember the smell of the grapes in Autumn, sharp with the crisp fall breeze.

The children are only left to guess at who we were. What we left. At least they can guess at how we saw, how we felt.

I remember the clouds in Spring, flowing behind our mansion, our garden, our home. The breeze rushed through our gate, joining the clouds in their dance.

The children will live here, will live our lives. They will see what we saw, live what we lived, and they will never know. Only our memories remain, haunting the land like a spirit.

But it is all just a house. Only a house, nothing more. It was beautiful to us in live, but it is nothing in death.