along a wined back road in the silence of autumn, There lies a memory of a happier time. A forest once large and beautiful, now dull with its trees ashy gray. The once crisp driveway stands for only a stripe of mud.
Some time, after walking down that desolate driveway, you reach a house. Or, what remains of it. It was hand made by an artist years ago, once Davine yet modern. With his own two hands he cut, shaped and piled the stones to build his home. After sixteen months, his house was complete.
However, that was then, and this is now.
half burned to the ground, the house remains. Bits of stone broken from the fire lay crippled in the dirt.
The house was gone, and so was its memory and creator.
Today, the remains stand as proud as before, till it is lost by humanity and crumbles from decades of untouched love.
