The graveyard sat like a blemish on the land illuminated by pale moonlight. The moon rose above it and the unmarked gravestones threw out twisted shadows to bow to the silvery orb.
No one knew who was buried under the gravestones. But the place smelled of the smell of sadness; salt mixed with ashes and dead rose petals. A cloak of tragedy settled over all those who entered to walk the paths between the burial plots.
The graveyard was silent, except for an owl sitting on one of the gravestones.
Legend said a village was buried there. A village of slaves.
The owl thought no one was buried there.
Photo by Wendy Scofield on Unsplash
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