6. Grief
Grief clings to Ringhaven like ivy. There are no graves, but tokens of mourning remain. Tiny shoes by doorsteps. Locks of hair in jars. A lullaby, scratched into a fireplace brick in shaky hand: “Sleep now, my bloom, no more to fear / The petals fall, but love stays near.” Some say grief itself walks here, a spirit in mourning black, dragging a bundle of withered flowers through the ash. When approached, it vanishes, leaving only wet footprints in dust.
Comments