Things die. That’s what they do. They die and rot and new things grow. Benjamin put the bench on the grounds over the place he buried his wife because things that once lived here would one day start to die.
And she would live.
He knew the woman, black-hearted and proud, would find a way back.
That was the promise she made with her last breath.
He trekked for miles into the back-country. Dug the red clay deep and planted her coffin under a headstone he bought expecting questions.
Today things started dying.
Photo prompt courtesy of: