The small crypt was still in darkness as we approached, on that frozen morning of January. Every year, on the same day, we gather here, on this desolate hill.
As usual, we were silent, as all of us know the place, the rite, the reasons. Besides, had we anything to say we would have done it, without words.
This year, we noticed the trace. Footsteps, in the fresh snow. Our horses noticed also the scent. The scent of a woman. We are rarely surprised by anything. But we were… intrigued.
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Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 