“G’Evening, Miss Lorelei.”
Tipping his flat cap in her direction, he pushes the wheelbarrow along the dirt path. The moon is full and bright.
“G’Evening Mister George, George Junior.” Regarding father and son with a bow of his head, his mud caked boots trudges forward. Thick fog blankets the graveyard.
“G’Evening Miss Ramona.” Next to her, he finds an empty plot and grabs a shovel.
Alone in the cemetery, the gravedigger whistles a tune as he digs. Tree branches full of orange leaves bristle. A woman’s delicate voice carries on the wind.
“Good evening, Jim. How’s life been treating you?”
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Write with heart.
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